TAKEN  ALIVE 
AND    OTHER    STORIES. 


X^-ZT— t^x<7   xZ/^x^,  - 

-/  y  0/0 

^c/Tcxl^ 


TAKEN  ALIVE 


AND   OTHER  STORIES 


ttfj  an  &utotriograplj2 


BY 


EDWARD     P.    ROE 

AUTHOR  or  "BARRIERS  BURNED  AWAY,"  "OPENING  OF  A  CHESTNUT  BURR' 
"WITHOUT  A  HOME,"  "MISS  LOU,"  ETC 


NEW    YORK 
DODD,    MEAD,    AND    COMPANY 

PUBIJSHERS 


PS 


/ 


3 


Copyright,  1883,  1889, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD,  AND  COMPANY. 

Copyright,  1888, 
BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  Co. 


SHnfbfrsifg 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

"A  NATIVE  AUTHOR  CALLED  ROE" 7 

TAKEN  ALIVE  : 

CHAP.  I.    SOMETHING  BEFORE  UNKNOWN 35 

II.    A  VISITOR  AT  THE  MINE 41 

III.  THWARTED 46 

IV.  TAKEN  ALIVE 54 

V.    WHAT  BRANDT  SAW  CHRISTMAS  EVE  ....  62 

FOUND  YET  LOST  : 

CHAP.  I.    LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 65 

II.    LOVE  AT  HOME 71 

III.  "DISABLED" 77 

IV.  MARTINE  SEEKS  AN  ANTIDOTE 84 

V.    SECOND  BLOOM     . 91 

VI.    MORE  THAN  REWARD 99 

VII.    YANKEE  BLANK 106 

VIII.    "How  CAN  I?" 115 

IX.    SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS 124 

X.    "You  CANNOT  UNDERSTAND" 133 

XI.    MR.  KEMBLE'S  APPEAL 140 

XII.    "  You  MUST  REMEMBER  " 146 

XIII.  "I'M  HELEN" 154 

XIV.  "FORWARD!   COMPANY  A" 164 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGS 

QUEEN  OF  SPADES I74 

AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT 204 

A  CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT 233 

THREE  THANKSGIVING  KISSES 253 

SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS 276 

JEFF'S  TREASURE  : 

CHAP.  I.    ITS  DISCOVERY 308 

II.    ITS  INFLUENCE 316 

CAUGHT  ON  THE  EBB-TIDE 327 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR  TIMES 341 

A  BRAVE  LITTLE  QUAKERESS 364 


A   NATIVE   AUTHOR   CALLED   ROE." 


'"p  WO  or  three  years  ago  the  editor  of  "  Lippincott's  Maga- 
-L  zine  "  asked  me,  with  many  others,  to  take  part  in  the 
very  interesting  "  experience  meeting  "  begun  in  the  pages  of 
that  enterprising  periodical.  I  gave  my  consent  without  much 
thought  of  the  effort  involved,  but  as  time  passed,  felt  slight 
inclination  to  comply  with  the  request.  There  seemed  little 
to  say  of  interest  to  the  general  public,  and  I  was  distinctly 
conscious  of  a  certain  sense  of  awkwardness  in  writing  about 
myself  at  all.  The  question,  Why  should  I  ?  always  con 
fronted,  me. 

When  this  request  was  again  repeated  early  in  the  current 
year,  I  resolved  at  least  to  keep  my  promise.  This  is  done 
with  less  reluctance  now,  for  the  reason  that  floating  through 
the  press  I  meet  with  paragraphs  concerning  myself  that  are 
incorrect,  and  often  absurdly  untrue.  These  literary  and  per 
sonal  notes,  together  with  many  questioning  letters,  indicate 
a  certain  amount  of  public  interest,  and  I  have  concluded 
that  it  may  be  well  to  give  the  facts  to  those  who  care  to 
know  them. 

It  has  been  made  more  clear  to  me  that  there  are  many  who 
honestly  do  care.  One  of  the  most  prized  rewards  of  my  lit 
erary  work  is  the  ever-present  consciousness  that  my  writings 
have  drawn  around  me  a  circle  of  unknown,  yet  stanch  friends, 
who  have  stood  by  me  unfalteringly  for  a  number  of  years.  I 
should  indeed  be  lacking  if  my  heart  did  not  go  out  to  them  in 
responsive  friendliness  and  good-will.  If  I  looked  upon  them 
merely  as  an  aggregation  of  customers,  they  would  find  me  out 


8  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

speedily.  A  popular  mood  is  a  very  different  thing  from  an 
abiding  popular  interest.  If  one  could  address  this  circle  of 
friends  only,  the  embarrassment  attendant  on  a  certain  amount 
of  egotism  would  be  banished  by  the  assurance  of  sympathetic 
regard.  Since,  from  the  nature  of  circumstances,  this  is  im 
possible,  it  seems  to  me  in  better  taste  to  consider  the  "  author 
called  Roe  "  in  an  objective,  rather  than  in  a  friendly  and  sub 
jective  sense.  In  other  words,  I  shall  try  to  look  at  him  from 
the  public  point  of  view,  and  free  myself  from  some  predisposi 
tion  in  his  favor  shared  by  his  friends.  I  suppose  I  shall  not 
succeed  in  giving  a  colorless  statement  of  facts,  but  I  may  avoid 
much  special  pleading  in  his  behalf. 

Like  so  many  other  people,  I  came  from  a  very  old  family, 
one  from  which  there  is  good  proof  of  an  unbroken  line  through 
the  Dark  Ages,  and  all  ages,  to  the  first  man.  I  have  never 
given  any  time  to  tracing  ancestry,  but  have  a  sort  of  quiet 
satisfaction  that  mine  is  certainly  American  as  far  as  it  well 
can  be.  My  forefathers  (not  "  rude,"  to  my  knowledge)  were 
among  the  first  settlers  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard.  My  paternal 
and  maternal  grandfathers  were  stanch  Whigs  during  the  Revo 
lution,  and  had  the  courage  of  their  convictions.  My  grand 
mother  escaped  with  her  children  from  the  village  of  Kingston 
almost  as  the  British  entered  it,  and  her  home  was  soon  in 
ashes.  Her  husband,  James  Roe,  was  away  in  the  army.  My 
mother  died  some  years  before  I  attained  my  majority,  and  I 
cannot  remember  when  she  was  not  an  invalid.  Such  literary 
tendencies  as  I  have  are  derived  from  her,  but  I  do  not  possess  a 
tithe  of  her  intellectual  power.  Her  story-books  in  her  youth 
were  the  classics ;  and  when  she  was  but  twelve  years  of  age  she 
knew  "  Paradise  Lost "  by  heart.  In  my  recollections  of  her, 
the  Bible  and  all  works  tending  to  elucidate  its  prophecies  were 
her  favorite  themes  of  study.  The  retentiveness  of  her  memory 
was  very  remarkable.  If  any  one  repeated  a  verse  of  the  New 
Testament,  she  could  go  on  and  finish  the  chapter.  Indeed,  she 
could  quote  the  greater  part  of  the  Bible  with  the  ease  and  ac 
curacy  of  one  reading  from  the  printed  page.  The  works  of 
Hugh  Miller  and  the  Arctic  Explorations  of  Dr.  Kane  afforded 
her  much  pleasure.  Confined  usually  to  her  room,  she  took 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  9 

unfailing  delight  in  wandering  about  the  world  with  the  great 
travellers  of  that  day,  her  strong  fancy  reproducing  the  scenes 
they  described.  A  stirring  bit  of  history  moved  her  deeply. 
Well  do  I  remember,  when  a  boy,  of  reading  to  her  a  chapter 
from  Motley's  "  Dutch  Republic,"  and  of  witnessing  in  her 
flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling  black  eyes  proof  of  an  excitement 
all  too  great  for  one  in  her  frail  health.  She  had  the  unusual 
gift  of  relating  in  an  easy,  simple  way  what  she  read ;  and  many 
a  book  far  too  abstruse  and  dull  for  my  boyish  taste  became  an 
absorbing  story  from  her  lips.  One  of  her  chief  characteristics 
was  the  love  of  flowers.  I  can  scarcely  recall  her  when  a  flower 
of  some  kind,  usually  a  rose,  was  not  within  her  reach ;  and  only 
periods  of  great  feebleness  kept  her  from  their  daily  care,  win 
ter  and  summer.  Many  descendants  of  her  floral  pets  are  now 
blooming  in  my  garden. 

My  father,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  sturdy  man  of  action. 
His  love  for  the  country  was  so  strong  that  he  retired  from 
business  in  New  York  as  soon  as  he  had  won  a  modest  com 
petence.  For  forty-odd  years  he  never  wearied  in  the  culti 
vation  of  his  little  valley  farm,  and  the  square,  flower-bordered 
garden,  at  one  side  of  which  ran  an  unfailing  brook.  In  this 
garden  and  under  his  tuition  I  acquired  my  love  of  horticulture, 
—  acquired  it  with  many  a  backache,  —  heartache  too,  on  days 
good  for  fishing  or  hunting ;  but,  taking  the  bitter  with  the 
sweet,  the  sweet  predominated.  I  find  now  that  I  think  only 
of  the  old-fashioned  roses  in  the  borders,  and  not  of  my  hands 
bleeding  from  the  thorns.  If  I  groaned  over  the  culture  of 
many  vegetables,  it  was  much  compensation  to  a  boy  that  the 
dinner-table  groaned  also  under  the  succulent  dishes  thus  pro 
vided.  I  observed  that  my  father's  interest  in  his  garden  and 
farm  never  flagged,  thus  proving  that  in  them  is  to  be  found 
a  pleasure  which  does  not  pall  with  age.  During  the  last  sum 
mer  of  his  life,  when  in  his  eighty-seventh  year,  he  had  the  de 
light  of  a  child  in  driving  over  to  my  home  in  the  early  morn 
ing,  long  before  I  was  up,  and  in  leaving  a  basket  of  sweet  corn 
or  some  other  vegetable  which  he  knew  would  prove  his  garden 
to  be  ahead  of  mine. 

My  father  was  very  simple  and  positive  in  his  beliefs,  always 


10  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

openly  foremost  in  the  reform  movements  of  his  day  and  in  his 
neighborhood,  yet  never,  to  my  knowledge,  seeking  or  taking 
any  office.  His  house  often  became  a  station  of  the  "  under 
ground  railroad  "  in  slavery  times,  and  on  one  night  in  the 
depth  of  winter  he  took  a  hotly-pursued  fugitive  in  his  sleigh 
and  drove  him  five  miles  on  the  ice,  diagonally  across  the  Hud 
son,  to  Fishkill,  thence  putting  the  brave  aspirant  for  freedom 
on  the  way  to  other  friends.  He  incurred  several  risks  in  this 
act.  It  is  rarely  safe  to  drive  on  the  river  off  the  beaten  tracks 
at  night,  for  there  are  usually  air-holes,  and  the  strong  tides 
are  continually  making  changes  in  the  ice.  When  told  that  he 
might  be  sent  to  jail  for  his  defiance  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law, 
he  quietly  answered,  "  I  can  go  to  jail."  The  thing  he  could  not 
do  was  to  deny  the  man's  appeal  to  him  for  help.  Before  the 
war  he  was  known  as  an  Abolitionist,  —  after  it,  as  a  Conserva 
tive,  his  sympathy  with  and  for  the  South  being  very  strong. 
During  the  draft  riots  in  1863  the  spirit  of  lawlessness  was  on 
the  point  of  breaking  out  in  the  river  towns.  I  happened  to 
be  home  from  Virginia,  and  learned  that  my  father's  house  was 
among  those  marked  for  burning  on  a  certain  night.  During 
this  night  the  horde  gathered ;  but  one  of  their  leaders  had  re 
ceived  such  emphatic  warning  of  what  would  happen  the  fol 
lowing  day  should  outrages  be  perpetrated,  that  he  persuaded 
his  associates  to  desist.  I  sat  up  that  night  at  my  father's 
door  with  a  double-barrelled  gun,  more  impressed  with  a 
sense  of  danger  than  at  any  other  time  in  my  experience ;  he, 
on  the  contrary,  slept  as  quietly  as  a  child. 

He  often  practised  close  economy  in  order  to  give  his  sons 
a  good  education.  The  one  act  of  my  life  which  I  remem 
ber  with  unalloyed  pride  and  pleasure  occurred  while  I  was  at 
boarding-school  in  Vermont,  preparing  for  college.  I  learned 
through  my  mother  that  my  father  had  denied  himself  his  daily 
newspaper  ;  and  I  knew  well  how  much  he  would  miss  it.  We 
burned  wood  in  the  large  stone  seminary  building.  Every  au 
tumn  great  ranks ^ of  hard  maple  were  piled  up,  and  students 
who  wished  to  earn  a  little  money  were  paid  a  dollar  a  cord  for 
sawing  it  into  three  lengths.  I  applied  for  nine  cords,  and  went 
at  the  unaccustomed  task  after  study-hours.  My  back  aches 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  \\ 

yet  as  I  recall  the  experiences  of  subsequent  weeks,  for  the 
wood  was  heavy,  thick,  and  hard  as  bone.  I  eventually  had 
the  pleasure  of  sending  to  my  father  the  subscription-price  of 
his  paper  for  a  year.  If  a  boy  reads  these  lines,  let  me  as 
sure  him  that  he  will  never  know  a  sweeter  moment  in  his 
life  than  when  he  receives  the  thanks  of  his  parents  for  some 
such  effort  in  their  behalf.  No  investment  can  ever  pay  him 
better. 

In  one  of  my  books,  "Nature's  Serial  Story,"  my  father  and 
mother  appear,  slightly  idealized. 

Towards  the  close  of  my  first  year  in  Williams  College  a  mis 
fortune  occurred  which  threatened  to  be  very  serious.  Study 
ing  by  defective  light  injured  my  eyes.  They  quickly  became 
so  sensitive  that  I  could  scarcely  endure  lamplight  or  the  heat 
of  a  stove,  only  the  cold  out-door  air  relieving  the  pain  ;  so  I 
spent  much  time  in  wandering  about  in  the  boisterous  weather 
of  early  spring  in  Williamstown.  At  last  I  became  so  dis 
couraged  that  I  went  to  President  Hopkins  and  told  him  that 
I  feared  I  must  give  up  the  purpose  of  acquiring  an  education. 
Never  can  I  forget  how  that  grand  old  man  met  the  disheart 
ened  boy.  Speaking  in  the  wise,  friendly  way  which  subdued 
the  heart  and  strengthened  the  will,  he  made  the  half-hour  spent 
with  him  the  turning-point  of  my  life.  In  conclusion,  he  advised 
me  to  enter  the  Senior  class  the  following  fall,  thus  taking  a 
partial  course  of  study.  How  many  men  are  living  to-day  who 
owe  much  of  the  best  in  their  lives  to  that  divinely-inspired 
guide  and  teacher  of  youth  ! 

I  next  went  to  another  man  great  in  his  sphere  of  life,  —  Dr. 
Agnew,  the  oculist.  He  gave  my  eyes  a  thorough  examination, 
told  me  that  he  could  do  nothing  for  them;  that  rest  and  the 
vigor  acquired  from  out-door  life  would  restore  them.  He  was 
as  kind  and  sympathetic  in  his  way  as  the  college  president, 
and  charged  but  a  trifle,  to  relieve  me  from  the  sense  of  taking 
charity.  Dr.  Agnew's  words  proved  correct ;  and  the  follow 
ing  autumn  I  entered  the  class  of  '61,  and  spent  a  happy  year. 
Some  of  my  class-mates  were  very  kind  in  reading  aloud  to  me, 
while  Dr.  Hopkins's  instruction  was  invaluable.  By  the  time 
I  entered  Auburn  Theological  Seminary  my  eyes  were  quite 


12  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

restored,  and  I  was  able  to  go  through  the  first  year's  course 
of  study  without  difficulty.  In  the  summer  of  1862  I  could  no 
longer  resist  the  call  for  men  in  the  army.  Learning  that  the 
Second  New  York  (Harris's  Light)  Cavalry  was  without  a  chap 
lain,  I  obtained  the  appointment  to  that  position.  General  Kil- 
patrick  was  then  lieutenant-colonel,  and  in  command  of  the 
regiment.  In  December,  1862, 1  witnessed  the  bloody  and  dis 
astrous  battle  of  Fredericksburg,  and  can  never  forget  the  expe 
riences  of  that  useless  tragedy.  I  was  conscious  of  a  sensation 
which  struck  me  as  too  profound  to  be  merely  awe.  Early  in 
the  morning  we  crossed  the  Rappahannock  on  a  pontoon  bridge, 
and  marched  up  the  hill  to  an  open  plain.  The  roar  of  the  bat 
tle  was  simply  terrific,  shading  off  from  the  sharp  continuous 
thunder  immediately  about  us  to  dull,  heavy  mutterings  far  to 
the  right  and  left.  A  few  hundred  yards  before  us,  where  the 
ground  began  to  slope  up  to  the  fatal  heights  crowned  with  Con 
federate  works  and  ordnance,  were  long  lines  of  Union  batteries. 
From  their  iron  mouths  puffs  of  smoke  issued  incessantly,  fol 
lowed  by  tremendous  reverberations.  Back  of  these  batteries 
the  ground  was  covered  with  men  lying  on  their  arms,  that 
they  might  present  a  less  obvious  target.  Then  a  little  farther 
to  the  rear,  on  the  level  ground  above  the  bluff,  stood  our 
cavalry.  Heavy  guns  on  both  sides  of  the  river  were  send 
ing  their  great  shrieking  shells  back  and  forth  over  our  heads, 
and  we  often  "ducked"  instinctively  when  the  missile  was  at 
least  forty  feet  above  us.  Even  our  horses  shuddered  at 
the  sound. 

I  resolved  to  learn  if  the  men  were  sharing  in  my  emotions, 
—  in  brief,  what  effect  the  situation  had  upon  them,  —  and  rode 
slowly  down  our  regimental  line.  So  vivid  was  the  impression 
of  that  long  array  of  awed,  pallid  faces  that  at  this  moment  I 
can  recall  them  distinctly.  There  were  strange  little  touches 
of  mingled  pathos  and  humor.  Meadow-larks  were  hemmed  in 
on  every  side,  too  frightened  to  fly  far  beyond  the  rude  alarms. 
They  would  flutter  up  into  the  sulphurous  air  with  plaintive 
cries,  then  drop  again  into  the  open  spaces  between  the  troops. 
At  one  time,  while  we  were  standing  at  our  horses'  heads,  a  star 
tled  rabbit  ran  to  us  for  cover.  The  poor  little  creature  meant 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  13 

a  dinner  to  the  fortunate  captor  on  a  day  when  a  dinner  was 
extremely  problematical.  We  engaged  in  a  sharp  scramble,  the 
prize  being  won  by  the  regimental  surgeon,  who  kindly  shared 
his  game  with  me. 

General  Bayard,  commanding  our  brigade,  was  mortally 
wounded,  and  died  like  a  hero.  He  was  carried  to  a  fine 
mansion  near  which  he  had  received  his  injury.  Many  other 
desperately-wounded  men  were  brought  to  the  spacious  rooms 
of  this  abode  of  Southern  luxury,  and  the  surgeons  were  kept 
busy  all  through  the  day  and  night.  It  was  here  I  gained  my 
first  experience  in  hospital  work.  This  extemporized  hospital 
on  the  field  was  so  exposed  as  to  be  speedily  abandoned.  In 
the  morning  I  recrossed  the  Rappahannock  with  my  regiment, 
which  had  been  ordered  down  the  river  on  picket  duty.  Soon 
after  we  went  into  winter  quarters  in  a  muddy  cornfield.  In 
February  I  resigned,  with  the  purpose  of  completing  my  studies, 
and  spent  the  remainder  of  the  term  at  the  Union  Theological 
Seminary  of  New  York.  My  regiment  would  not  get  another 
chaplain,  so  I  again  returned  to  it.  In  November  I  received 
a  month's  leave  of  absence,  and  was  married  to  Miss  Anna  P. 
Sands,  of  New  York  City.  Our  winter  quarters  in  1864  were  at 
Stevensburg,  between  the  town  of  Culpeper  and  the  Rapidan 
River.  During  the  pleasant  days  of  late  February  several  of 
the  officers  were  enjoying  the  society  of  their  wives.  Mrs.  Roe 
having  expressed  a  willingness  to  rough  it  with  me  for  a  week, 
I  sent  for  her,  and  one  Saturday  afternoon  went  to  the  nearest 
railroad  station  to  meet  her.  The  train  came,  but  not  my  wife; 
and,  much  disappointed,  I  found  the  return  ride  of  five  miles  a 
dreary  one  in  the  winter  twilight.  I  stopped  at  our  colonel's 
tent  to  say  to  him  and  his  wife  that  Mrs.  Roe  had  not  come, 
then  learned  for  the  first  time  very  startling  tidings. 

"  Chaplain,"  said  the  colonel,  "  we  are  going  to  Richmond  to 
morrow.  We  are  going  to  wade  right  through  and  past  every 
thing  in  a  neck-or-nothing  ride,  and  who  will  come  out  is  a 
question." 

His  wife  was  weeping  in  her  private  tent,  and  I  saw  that  for 
the  first  time  in  my  acquaintance  with  him  he  was  downcast. 
He  was  one  of  the  bravest  of  men,  yet  now  a  foreboding  of  evil 


14  TAKEN'  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

oppressed  him.  The  result  justified  it,  for  he  was  captured 
during  the  raid,  and  never  fully  rallied  after  the  war  from  the 
physical  depression  caused  by  his  captivity.  He  told  me  that 
on  the  morrow  General  Kilpatrick  would  lead  four  thousand 
picked  cavalry-men  in  a  raid  on  Richmond,  having  as  its  special 
object  the  release  of  our  prisoners.  I  rode  to  the  headquarters 
of  the  general,  who  confirmed  the  tidings,  adding,  "You  need 
not  go.  Non-combatants  are  not  expected  to  go." 

It  was  most  fortunate  that  my  wife  had  not  come.  I  had  re 
cently  been  appointed  chaplain  of  Hampton  Hospital,  Virginia, 
by  President  Lincoln,  and  was  daily  expecting  my  confirmation 
by  the  Senate.  I  had  fully  expected  to  give  my  wife  a  glimpse 
of  army  life  in  the  field,  and  then  to  enter  on  my  new  duties. 
To  go  or  not  to  go  was  a  question  with  me  that  night.  The  raid 
certainly  offered  a  sharp  contrast  with  the  anticipated  week's 
outing  with  my  bride.  I  did  not  possess  by  nature  that  kind 
of  courage  which  is  indifferent  to  danger;  and  life  had  never 
offered  more  attractions  than  at  that  time.  I  have  since  en 
joyed  Southern  hospitality  abundantly,  and  hope  to  again,  but 
then  its  prospect  was  not  alluring.  Before  morning,  however, 
I  reached  the  decision  that  I  would  go,  and  during  the  Sun 
day  forenoon  held  my  last  service  in  the  regiment.  I  had  dis 
posed  of  my  horse,  and  so  had  to  take  a  sorry  beast  at  the  last 
moment,  the  only  one  I  could  obtain. 

In  the  dusk  of  Sunday  evening  four  thousand  men  were 
masked  in  the  woods  on  the  banks  of  the  Rapidan.  Our  scouts 
opened  the  way  by  wading  the  stream  and  pouncing  upon  the 
unsuspecting  picket  of  twenty  Confederates  opposite.  Then 
away  we  went  across  a  cold,  rapid  river,  marching  all  that  night 
through  the  dim  woods  and  openings  in  a  country  that  was  em 
phatically  the  enemy's.  Lee's  entire  army  was  on  our  right, 
the  main  Confederate  cavalry  force  on  our  left.  The  strength 
of  our  column  and  its  objective  point  could  not  remain  long 
unknown. 

In  some  unimportant  ways  I  acted  as  aid  for  Kilpatrick.  A 
few  hundred  yards  in  advance  of  the  main  body  rode  a  van 
guard  of  two  hundred  men,  thrown  forward  to  warn  us  should 
we  strike  any  considerable  number  of  the  enemy's  cavalry.  As 


UA   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  15 

is  ever  the  case,  the  horses  of  a  small  force  will  walk  away  from 
a  much  larger  body,  and  it  was  necessary  from  time  to  time 
to  send  word  to  the  vanguard,  ordering  it  to  "slow  up."  This 
order  was  occasionally  intrusted  to  me.  I  was  to  gallop  over 
the  interval  between  the  two  columns,  then  draw  up  by  the 
roadside  and  sit  motionless  on  my  horse  till  the  general  with 
his  staff  came  up.  The  slightest  irregularity  of  action  would 
bring  a  shot  from  our  own  men,  while  the  prospect  of  an  inter 
view  with  the  Johnnies  while  thus  isolated  was  always  good. 
I  saw  one  of  our  officers  shot  that  night.  He  had  ridden  care 
lessly  into  the  woods,  and  rode  out  again  just  before  the  head 
of  the  column,  without  instantly  accounting  for  himself.  As  it 
was  of  vital  importance  to  keep  the  movement  secret  as  long 
as  possible,  the  poor  fellow  was  silenced  in  sad  error  as  to  his 
identity. 

On  we  rode,  night  and  day,  with  the  briefest  possible  halts. 
At  one  point  we  nearly  captured  a  railroad  train,  and  might 
easily  have  succeeded  had  not  the  station  and  warehouses  been 
in  flames.  As  it  was,  the  train  approached  us  closely,  then 
backed,  the  shrieking  engine  itself  giving  the  impression  of 
being  startled  to  the  last  degree. 

On  a  dreary,  drizzling,  foggy  day  we  passed  a  milestone  on 
which  was  lettered,  "  Four  miles  to  Richmond."  It  was  still 
"  on  to  Richmond  "  with  us  what  seemed  a  long  way  farther, 
and  then  came  a  considerable  period  of  hesitancy,  in  which  the 
command  was  drawn  up  for  the  final  dash.  The  enemy  shelled 
a  field  near  us  vigorously,  but  fortunately,  or  unfortunately, 
the  fog  was  so  dense  that  neither  party  could  make  accurate 
observations  or  do  much  execution. 

For  reasons  that  have  passed  into  history,  the  attack  was 
not  made.  We  withdrew  six  miles  from  the  city  and  went  into 
camp. 

I  had  scarcely  begun  to  enjoy  much-needed  rest  before  the 
Confederates  came  up  in  the  darkness  and  shelled  us  out  of 
such  quarters  as  we  had  found.  We  had  to  leave  our  boiling 
coffee  behind  us,  —  one  of  the  greatest  hardships  I  have  ever 
known.  Then  followed  a  long  night-ride  down  the  Peninsula, 
in  driving  sleet  and  rain. 


1 6  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  broke  out  gloriously,  warming  and 
drying  our  chilled  wet  forms.  Nearly  all  that  day  we  main 
tained  a  line  of  battle  confronting  the  pursuing  enemy.  One 
brigade  would  take  a  defensive  position,  while  the  other  would 
march  about  five  miles  to  a  commanding  point,  where  it  in  turn 
would  form  a  line.  The  first  brigade  would  then  give  way,  pass 
through  the  second,  and  take  position  well  to  the  rear.  Thus, 
although  retreating,  we  were  always  ready  to  fight.  At  one  point 
the  enemy  pressed  us  closely,  and  I  saw  a  magnificent  cavalry 
charge  down  a  gentle  descent  in  the  road.  Every  sabre  seemed 
tipped  with  fire  in  the  brilliant  sunshine. 

In  the  afternoon  it  became  evident  that  there  was  a  body 
of  troops  before  us.  Who  or  what  they  were  was  at  first  un 
known,  and  for  a  time  the  impression  prevailed  that  we  should 
have  to  cut  our  way  through  by  a  headlong  charge.  We  soon 
learned,  however,  that  the  force  was  a  brigade  of  colored  in 
fantry,  sent  up  to  cover  our  retreat.  It  was  the  first  time  we 
had  seen  negro  troops,  but  as  the  long  line  of  glistening  bayonets 
and  light-blue  uniforms  came  into  view,  prejudices,  if  any  there 
were,  vanished  at  once,  and  a  cheer  from  the  begrimed  troopers 
rang  down  our  line,  waking  the  echoes.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing 
to  march  past  that  array  of  faces,  friendly  though  black,  and 
know  we  were  safe.  They  represented  the  F.  F.  V.'s  of  Old 
Virginia  we  then  wished  to  see.  On  the  last  day  of  the  march 
my  horse  gave  out,  compelling  me  to  walk  and  lead  him. 

On  the  day  after  our  arrival  at  Yorktown,  Kilpatrick  gave  me 
despatches  for  the  authorities  at  Washington.  President  Lin 
coln,  learning  that  I  had  just  returned  from  the  raid,  sent  for 
me,  and  I  had  a  memorable  interview  with  him  alone  in  his 
private  room.  He  expressed  profound  solicitude  for  Colonel 
Dahlgren  and  his  party.  They  had  been  detached  from  the 
main  force,  and  I  could  give  no  information  concerning  them. 
We  eventually  learned  of  the  death  of  that  heroic  young  officer, 
Colonel  Dahlgren.  Although  partially  helpless  from  the  loss  of 
a  leg,  he  led  a  daring  expedition  at  the  cost  of  his  life. 

I  expressed  regret  to  the  President  that  the  object  of  the  raid 
had  not  been  accomplished.  "  Pick  the  flint,  and  try  it  again," 
said  Mr.  Lincoln,  heartily.  I  went  out  from  his  presence  awed 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED   ROE."  1 7 

by  the  courage  and  sublime  simplicity  of  the  man.  While  he 
gave  the  impression  that  he  was  bearing  the  nation  on  his  heart, 
one  was  made  to  feel  that  it  was  also  large  enough  for  sympathy 
with  all  striving  with  him  in  the  humblest  way. 

My  wife  joined  me  in  Washington,  and  a  few  days  later  ac 
companied  me  to  the  scene  of  my  new  labors  at  Hampton  Hos 
pital,  near  Fortress  Monroe.  There  were  not  many  patients  at 
that  time  (March,  1864)  in  the  large  barrack  wards;  but  as  soon 
as  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  broke  through  the  Wilderness  and 
approached  our  vicinity,  transports  in  increasing  numbers,  laden 
with  desperately-wounded  men,  came  to  our  wharf.  During  the 
early  summer  the  wooden  barracks  were  speedily  filled,  and 
many  tent  wards  were  added.  Duty  became  constant  and  se 
vere,  while  the  scenes  witnessed  were  often  painful  in  the  last 
degree.  More  truly  than  on  the  field,  the  real  horrors  of  war 
are  learned  from  the  long  agonies  in  the  hospital.  While  in 
the  cavalry  service,  I  gained  in  vigor  daily  ;  in  two  months  of 
hospital  work  I  lost  thirty  pounds.  On  one  day  I  buried  as 
many  as  twenty-nine  men.  Every  evening,  till  the  duty  be 
came  like  a  nightmare,  I  followed  the  dead-cart,  filled  up  with 
coffins,  once,  twice,  and  often  thrice,  to  the  cemetery.  Event 
ually  an  associate  chaplain  was  appointed,  who  relieved  me  of 
this  task. 

Fortunately,  my  tastes  led  me  to  employ  an  antidote  to  my 
daily  work  as  useful  to  me  as  to  the  patients.  Surrounding  the 
hospital  was  much  waste  land.  This,  with  the  approval  of  the 
surgeon  in  charge,  Dr.  Ely  McMillan,  and  the  aid  of  the  con 
valescents,  I  transformed  into  a  garden,  and  for  two  successive 
seasons  sent  to  the  general  kitchen  fresh  vegetables  by  the 
wagon-load.  If  reward  were  needed,  the  wistful  delight  with 
which  a  patient  from  the  front  would  regard  a  raw  onion  was 
ample  ;  while  for  me  the  care  of  the  homely,  growing  vegetables 
and  fruit  brought  a  diversion  of  mind  which  made  life  more 
endurable. 

One  of  the  great  needs  of  the  patients  who  had  to  fight  the 
winning  or  losing  battle  of  life  was  good  reading;  and  I  speedily 
sought  to  obtain  a  supply.  Hearts  and  purses  at  the  North  re 
sponded  promptly  and  liberally ;  publishers  threw  off  fifty  per 


1 8  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

cent  from  their  prices  ;  and  I  was  eventually  able  to  collect,  by 
gift  and  purchase,  about  three  thousand  volumes.  In  gathering 
this  library,  I  provided  what  may  be  distinctly  termed  religious 
reading  in  abundance ;  but  I  also  recognized  the  need  of  diver 
sion.  Long  wards  were  filled  with  men  who  had  lost  a  leg  or  an 
arm,  and  who  must  lie  in  one  position  for  weeks.  To  help  them 
get  through  the  time  was  to  help  them  to  live.  I  therefore  made 
the  library  rich  in  popular  fiction  and  genial  books  of  travel  and 
biography.  Full  sets  of  Irving,  Cooper,  Dickens,  Thackeray, 
Scott,  Marryatt,  and  other  standard  works  were  bought ;  and 
many  a  time  I  have  seen  a  poor  fellow  absorbed  in  their  pages 
while  holding  his  stump  lest  the  jar  of  a  footstep  should  send  a 
dart  of  agony  to  the  point  of  mutilation.  My  wife  gave  much 
assistance  in  my  hospital  duties,  often  reaching  and  influencing 
those  beyond  me.  I  recall  one  poor  fellow  who  was  actually  six 
months  in  dying  from  a  very  painful  wound.  Profanity  appeared 
to  be  his  vernacular,  and  in  bitter  protest  at  his  fate,  he  would 
curse  nearly  every  one  and  everything.  Mrs.  Roe's  sympathy 
and  attentions  changed  him  very  much,  and  he  would  listen 
quietly  as  long  as  she  would  read  to  him.  Some  of  the  hos 
pital  attendants,  men  and  women,  had  good  voices,  and  we  or 
ganized  a  choir.  Every  Sunday  afternoon  we  went  from  ward 
to  ward  singing  familiar  hymns.  It  was  touching  to  see  rough 
fellows  drawing  their  blankets  over  their  heads  to  hide  the  emo 
tion  caused  by  words  and  melodies  associated,  in  many  instances, 
with  home  and  mother. 

Northern  generosity,  and,  in  the  main,  convalescent  labor 
enabled  me  to  build  a  large  commodious  chapel  and  to  make 
great  improvements  in  the  hospital  farm.  The  site  of  the 
hospital  and  garden  is  now  occupied  by  General  Armstrong's 
Normal  and  Agricultural  Institute  for  Freedmen,  and  the 
chapel  was  occupied  -as  a  place  of  worship  until  very  recently. 
Thus  a  noble  and  most  useful  work  is  being  accomplished  on 
the  ground  consecrated  by  the  life-and-death  struggles  of  so 
many  Union  soldiers. 

In  1865  the  blessed  era  of  peace  began,  bringing  its  many 
changes.  In  October  the  hospital  became  practically  empty, 
and  I  resigned.  The  books  were  sent  to  Fortress  Monroe 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  19 

for  the  use  of  the  garrison,  and  I  found  many  of  them  there 
long  years  after,  almost  worn  out  from  use. 

After  a  little  rest  and  some  candidating  for  a  church,  I  took  a 
small  parish  at  Highland  Falls,  about  a  mile  from  West  Point, 
New  York,  entering  on  my  labors  in  January,  1866.  In  this 
village  my  wife  and  I  spent  nine  very  happy  years.  They  were 
full  of  trial  and  many  cares,  but  free  from  those  events  which 
bring  the  deep  shadows  into  one's  life.  We  soon  became  en 
gaged  in  building  a  new  stone  church,  whose  granite  walls  are 
so  thick,  and  hard-wood  finish  so  substantial  that  passing  cen 
turies  should  add  only  the  mellowness  of  age.  The  effort  to 
raise  funds  for  this  enterprise  led  me  into  the  lecture-field  and 
here  I  found  my  cavalry-raid  and  army  life  in  general  exceed 
ingly  useful.  I  looked  around  for  a  patch  of  garden-ground  as 
instinctively  as  a  duck  seeks  water.  The  small  plot  adjoin 
ing  the  parsonage  speedily  grew  into  about  three  acres,  from 
which  eventually  came  a  book  entitled  "  Play  and  Profit  in  my 
Garden." 

Up  to  the  year  1871  I  had  written  little  for  publication  be 
yond  occasional  contributions  to  the  New  York  "  Evangelist," 
nor  had  I.  seriously  contemplated  a  literary  life.  I  had  always 
been  pxtremely  fond  of  fiction,  and  from  boyhood  had  formed 
a  habit  of  beguiling  the  solitary  hours  in  weaving  crude  fancies 
around  people  who  for  any  reason  interested  me.  I  usually  had 
a  mental  serial  running,  to  which  I  returned  when  it  was  my 
mood  ;  but  I  had  never  written  even  a  short  story.  In  October, 
1871,  I  was  asked  to  preach  for  a  far  up-town  congregation  in 
New  York,  with  the  possibility  of  a  settlement  in  view.  On 
Monday  following  the  services  of  the  Sabbath,  the  officers  of 
the  church  were  kind  enough  to  ask  me  to  spend  a  week  with 
them  and  visit  among  the  people.  Meantime,  the  morning 
papers  laid  before  us  the  startling  fact  that  the  city  of  Chicago 
was  burning  and  that  its  population  was  becoming  homeless. 
The  tidings  impressed  me  powerfully,  waking  the  deepest  sym 
pathy.  I  said  to  myself,  "  Here  is  a  phase  of  life  as  remarkable 
as  any  witnessed  during  the  war."  I  obeyed  the  impulse  to 
be  on  the  scene  as  soon  as  possible,  stated  my  purpose  to  my 
friends,  and  was  soon  among  the  smoking  ruins,  finding  an 


20  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

abiding-place  with  throngs  of  others  in  a  partially-finished  ho- 
tel.  For  days  and  nights  I  wandered  where  a  city  had  been,  and 
among  the  extemporized  places  of  refuge  harboring  all  classes 
of  people.  Late  one  night  I  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the 
steps  of  Robert  Collyer's  church  and  watched  the  full  moon 
through  the  roofless  walls  and  shattered  steeple.  There  was 
not  an  evidence  of  life  where  had  been  populous  streets.  It 
was  there  and  then,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  that  the 
vague  outlines  of  my  first  story,  "  Barriers  Burned  Away,"  be 
gan  to  take  form  in  my  mind.  I  soon  returned  home,  and  began 
to  dream  and  write,  giving  during  the  following  year  such 
hours  as  could  be  withdrawn  from  many  other  duties  to  the 
construction  of  the  story.  I  wrote  when  and  where  I  could,  — 
on  steamboats,  in  railway  cars,  and  at  all  odd  hours  of  leisure, 
often  with  long  breaks  in  the  work  of  composition,  caused  by 
the  pressure  of  other  affairs,  again  getting  up  a  sort  of  white 
heat  from  incessantly  dwelling  upon  scenes  and  incidents  that 
had  become  real  to  me.  In  brief,  the  story  took  possession 
of  my  mind,  and  grew  as  naturally  as  a  plant  or  a  weed  in  my 
garden. 

It  will  thus  be  obvious  that  at  nearly  middle  age,  and  in  obe 
dience  to  an  impulse,  I  was  launched  as  an  author ;  that  I  had 
very  slight  literary  training;  and  that  my  appearance  as  a  novel 
ist  was  quite  as  great  a  surprise  to  myself  as  to  any  of  my 
friends.  The  writing  of  sermons  certainly  does  not  prepare  one 
for  the  construction  of  a  novel ;  and  to  this  clay  certain  critics 
contemptuously  dismiss  my  books  as  "preaching."  During 
nearly  four  years  of  army  life,  at  a  period  when  most  young  men 
are  forming  style  and  making  the  acquaintance  of  literature,  I 
scarcely  had  a  chance  to  read  at  all.  The  subsequent  years 
of  the  pastorate  were  too  active,  except  for  an  occasional  dip 
into  a  favorite  author. 

While  writing  my  first  story,  I  rarely  thought  of  the  public,  the 
characters  and  their  experiences  absorbing  me  wholly.  When 
my  narrative  was  actually  in  print,  there  was  wakened  a  very 
deep  interest  as  to  its  reception.  I  had  none  of  the  confidence 
resulting  from  the  gradual  testing  of  one's  power  or  from  asso 
ciation  with  literary  people,  and  I  also  was  aware  that  when 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  21 

published,  a  book  was  far  away  from  the  still  waters  of  which 
one's  friends  are  the  protecting  headlands.  That  I  knew  my 
work  to  be  exceedingly  faulty  goes  without  saying ;  that  it  was 
utterly  bad,  I  was  scarcely  ready  to  believe.  Dr.  Field,  noted 
for  his  pure  English  diction  and  taste,  would  not  publish  an 
irredeemable  story,  and  the  constituency  of  the  New  York 
"  Evangelist  "  is  well  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  intelligent 
in  the  country.  Friendly  opinions  from  serial-readers  were  re 
assuring  as  far  as  they  went,  but  of  course  the  great  majority  of 
those  who  followed  the  story  were  silent.  A  writer  cannot,  like 
a  speaker,  look  into  the  eyes  of  his  audience  and  observe  its 
mental  attitude  towards  his  thought.  If  my  memory  serves  me, 
Mr.  R.  R.  Bowker  was  the  earliest  critic  to  write  some  friendly 
words  in  the  "  Evening  Mail ;  "  but  at  first  my  venture  was  very 
generally  ignored.  Then  some  unknown  friend  marked  an  in 
fluential  journal  published  in  the  interior  of  the  State  and  mailed 
it  so  timely  that  it  reached  me  on  Christmas  eve.  I  doubt  if  a 
book  was  ever  more  unsparingly  condemned  than  mine  in  that  re 
view,  whose  final  words  were,  "  The  story  is  absolutely  nauseat 
ing."  In  this  instance  and  in  my  salad  days  I  took  pains  to  find 
out  who  the  writer  was,  for  if  his  view  was  correct  I  certainly 
should  not  engage  in  further  efforts  to  make  the  public  ill.  I 
discovered  the  reviewer  to  be  a  gentleman  for  whom  I  have 
ever  had  the  highest  respect  as  an  editor,  legislator,  and  honest 
thinker.  My  story  made  upon  him  just  the  impression  he  ex 
pressed,  and  it  would  be  very  stupid  on  my  part  to  blink  the  fact. 
Meantime,  the  book  was  rapidly  making  for  itself  friends  and 
passing  into  frequent  new  editions.  Even  the  editor  who  con 
demned  the  work  would  not  assert  that  those  who  bought  it 
were  an  aggregation  of  asses.  People  cannot  be  found  by 
thousands  who  will  pay  a  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents  for  a 
dime  novel  or  a  religious  tract.  I  wished  to  learn  the  actual 
truth  more  sincerely  than  any  critic  to  write  it,  and  at  last  I 
ventured  to  take  a  copy  to  Mr.  George  Ripley,  of  the  New 
York  "  Tribune."  "  Here  is  a  man,"  I  thought,  "  whose  fame 
and  position  as  a  critic  are  recognized  by  all.  If  he  deigns  to 
notice  the  book,  he  will  not  only  say  what  he  thinks,  but  I  shall 
have  much  reason  to  think  as  he  does."  Mr.  Ripley  met  the 


22  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

diffident  author  kindly,  asked  a  few  questions,  and  took  the 
volume.  A  few  weeks  later,  to  my  great  surprise,  he  gave  over 
a  column  to  a  review  of  the  story.  Although  not  blind  to  its 
many  faults,  he  wrote  words  far  more  friendly  and  inspiring 
than  I  ever  hoped  to  see  ;  it  would  seem  that  the  public  had 
sanctioned  his  verdict.  From  that  day  to  this  these  two  in 
stances  have  been  types  of  my  experience  with  many  critics, 
one  condemning,  another  commending.  There  is  ever  a  third 
class  who  prove  their  superiority  by  sneering  at  or  ignoring 
what  is  closely  related  to  the  people.  Much  thought  over  my 
experience  led  to  a  conclusion  which  the  passing  years  con 
firm  :  the  only  thing  for  a  writer  is  to  be  himself  and  take  the 
consequences.  Even  those  who  regard  me  as  a  literary  of 
fender  of  the  blackest  dye  have  never  named  imitation  among 
my  sins. 

As  successive  books  appeared,  I  began  to  recognize  more 
and  more  clearly  another  phase  of  an  author's  experience.  A 
writer  gradually  forms  a  constituency,  certain  qualities  in  his 
book  appealing  to  certain  classes  of  minds.  In  my  own  case  I 
do  not  mean  classes  of  people  looked  at  from  the  social  point 
of  view.  A  writer  who  takes  any  hold  on  popular  attention  in 
evitably  learns  the  character  of  his  constituency.  He  appeals, 
and  minds  and  temperaments  in  sympathy  respond.  Those  he 
cannot  touch  go  on  their  way  indifferently  ;  those  he  offends 
may  often  strike  back.  This  is  the  natural  result  of  any  strong 
assertion  of  individuality.  Certainly,  if  I  had  my  choice,  I 
would  rather  write  a  book  interesting  to  the  young  and  to  the 
common  people,  whom  Lincoln  said  "  God  must  love,  since  He 
made  so  many  of  them."  The  former  are  open  to  influence; 
the  latter  can  be  quickened  and  prepared  for  something  better. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  find  that  there  are  those  in  all  classes 
whom  my  books  attract,  others  who  are  repelled,  as  I  have 
said.  It  is  perhaps  one  of  the  pleasantest  experiences  of  an 
author's  life  to  learn  from  letters  and  in  other  ways  that  he  is 
forming  a  circle  of  friends,  none  the  less  friendly  because  per 
sonally  unknown.  Their  loyalty  is  both  a  safeguard  and  an 
inspiration.  On  one  hand,  the  writer  shrinks  from  abusing 
such  regard  by  careless  work  ;  on  the  other,  he  is  stimulated 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  23 

and  encouraged  by  the  feeling  that  there  is  a  group  in  waiting 
who  will  appreciate  his  best  endeavor.  While  I  clearly  recog 
nize  my  limitations,  and  have  no  wish  to  emulate  the  frog  in  the 
fable,  I  can  truthfully  say  that  I  take  increasing  pains  with  each 
story,  aiming  to  verify  every  point  by  experience,  —  my  own  or 
that  of  others.  Not  long  since,  a  critic  asserted  that  changes 
in  one  of  my  characters,  resulting  from  total  loss  of  memory, 
were  preposterously  impossible.  If  the  critic  had  consulted 
Ribot's  "  Diseases  of  Memory,"  or  some  experienced  physician, 
he  might  have  written  more  justly.  I  do  not  feel  myself  com 
petent  to  form  a  valuable  opinion  as  to  good  art  in  writing,  and 
I  cannot  help  observing  that  the  art-doctors  disagree  wofully 
among  themselves.  Truth  to  nature  and  the  realities,  and  not 
the  following  of  any  school  or  fashion,  has  ever  seemed  the 
safest  guide.  I  sometimes  venture  to  think  I  know  a  little 
about  human  nature.  My  active  life  brought  me  in  close  con 
tact  with  all  kinds  of  people ;  there  was  no  man  in  my  regiment 
who  hesitated  to  come  to  my  tent  or  to  talk  confidentially  by 
the  camp-fire,  while  scores  of  dying  men  laid  bare  to  me  their 
hearts.  I  at  least  know  the  nature  that  exists  in  the  human 
breast.  It  may  be  inartistic,  or  my  use  of  it  all  wrong.  That 
is  a  question  which  time  will  decide,  and  I  shall  accept  the  ver 
dict.  Over  twelve  years  ago,  certain  oracles,  with  the  voice  of 
fate,  predicted  my  speedy  eclipse  and  disappearance.  Are  they 
right  in  their  adverse  judgment  ?  I  can  truthfully  say  that  now, 
as  at  the  first,  I  wish  to  know  the  facts  in  the  case.  The  mo 
ment  an  author  is  conceited  about  his  work,  he  becomes  absurd 
and  is  passing  into  a  hopeless  condition.  If  worthy  to  write  at 
all,  he  knows  that  he  falls  far  short  of  his  ideals  ;  if  honest,  he 
wishes  to  be  estimated  at  his  true  worth,  and  to  cast  behind 
him  the  mean  little  Satan  of  vanity.  If  he  walks  under  a  con 
scious  sense  of  greatness,  he  is  a  ridiculous  figure,  for  behold 
ers  remember  the  literary  giants  of  other  days  and  of  his  own 
time,  and  smile  at  the  airs  of  the  comparatively  little  man.  On 
the  other  hand,  no  self-respecting  writer  should  ape  the  false 
deprecating  "  umbleness  "  of  Uriah  Keep.  In  short,  he  wishes 
to  pass,  like  a  coin,  for  just  what  he  is  worth.  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold  was  ludicrously  unjust  to  the  West  when  he  wrote,  "  The 


24  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Western  States  are  at  this  moment  being  nourished  and  formed, 
we  hear,  on  the  novels  of  a  native  author  called  Roe."  Why 
could  not  Mr.  Arnold  have  taken  a  few  moments  to  look  into 
the  bookstores  of  the  great  cities  of  the  West,  in  order  to  ob 
serve  for  himself  how  the  demand  of  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  intelligent  reading  publics  in  the  world  is  supplied  ?  He 
would  have  found  that  the  works  of  Scott  and  Dickens  were 
more  liberally  purchased  and  generally  read  than  in  his  own 
land  of  "distinction."  He  should  have  discovered  when  in  this 
country  that  American  statesmen  (?)  are  so  solicitous  about  the 
intelligence  of  their  constituents  that  they  give  publishers  so 
disposed  every  opportunity  to  steal  novels  describing  the  no 
bility  and  English  persons  of  distinction  ;  that  tons  of  such 
novels  have  been  sold  annually  in  the  West,  a  thousand  to  one 
of  the  "  author  called  Roe."  The  simple  truth  in  the  case  is 
that  in  spite  of  this  immense  and  cheap  competition,  my  novels 
have  made  their  way  and  are  being  read  among  multitudes  of 
others.  No  one  buys  or  reads  a  book  under  compulsion  ;  and 
if  any  one  thinks  that  the  poorer  the  book  the  better  the  chance 
of  its  being  read  by  the  American  people,  let  him  try  the  experi 
ment.  When  a  critic  condemns  my  books,  I  accept  that  as  his 
judgment ;  when  another  critic  and  scores  of  men  and  women, 
the  peers  of  the  first  in  cultivation  and  intelligence,  commend 
the  books,  I  do  not  charge  them  with  gratuitous  lying.  My 
one  aim  has  become  to  do  my  work  conscientiously  and  leave 
the  final  verdict  to  time  and  the  public.  I  wish  no  other  esti 
mate  than  a  correct  one  ;  and  when  the  public  indicate  that 
they  have  had  enough  of  Roe,  I  shall  neither  whine  nor  write. 

As  a  rule,  I  certainly  stumble  on  my  stories,  as  well  as  stumble 
through  them  perhaps.  Some  incident  or  unexpected  impulse 
is  the  beginning  of  their  existence.  One  October  day  I  was 
walking  on  a  country  road,  and  a  chestnut  burr  lay  in  my  path. 
I  said  to  myself,  "  There  is  a  book  in  that  burr,  if  I  could  get 
it  out."  With  little  volition  on  my  part,  the  story  "  Opening  a 
Chestnut  Burr  "  took  form  and  was  written. 

One  summer  evening,  when  in  New  York,  I  went  up  to 
Thomas's  Garden,  near  Central  Park,  to  hear  the  delicious 
music  he  was  educating  us  to  appreciate.  At  a  certain  point 


"A    NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  2$ 

in  the  programme  I  noticed  that  the  next  piece  would  be 
Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony,  and  I  glanced  around  with  a 
sort  of  congratulatory  impulse,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Now  we 
shall  have  a  treat."  My  attention  was  immediately  arrested 
and  fixed  by  a  young  girl  who,  with  the  gentleman  escort 
ing  her,  was  sitting  near  by.  My  first  impression  of  her  face 
was  one  of  marvellous  beauty,  followed  by  a  sense  of  dissat 
isfaction.  Such  was  my  distance  that  I  could  not  annoy  her 
by  furtive  observation ;  and  I  soon  discovered  that  she  would 
regard  a  stare  as  a  tribute.  Why  was  it  that  her  face  was  so 
beautiful,  yet  so  displeasing  ?  Each  feature  analyzed  seemed 
perfection,  yet  the  general  effect  was  a  mocking,  ill-kept  prom 
ise.  The  truth  was  soon  apparent.  The  expression  was  not 
evil,  but  frivolous,  silly,  unredeemed  by  any  genuine  womanly 
grace.  She  giggled  and  flirted  through  the  sublime  symphony, 
till  in  exasperation  I  went  out  into  the  promenade  under  the 
open  sky.  In  less  than  an  hour  I  had  my  story,  "A  Face  Illu 
mined."  I  imagined  an  artist  seeing  what  I  had  seen  and  feel 
ing  a  stronger  vexation  in  the  wounding  of  his  beauty-loving 
nature  ;  that  he  learned  during  the  evening  that  the  girl  was  a 
relative  of  a  close  friend,  and  that  a  sojourn  at  a  summer  hotel 
on  the  Hudson  was  in  prospect.  On  his  return  home  he  con 
ceives  the  idea  of  painting  the  girl's  features  and  giving  them 
a  harmonious  expression.  Then  the  fancy  takes  him  that  the 
girl  is  a  modern  Undine  and  has  not  yet  received  her  woman's 
soul.  The  story  relates  his  effort  to  beautify,  illumine  the  face 
itself  by  evoking  a  mind.  I  never  learned  who  was  the  actual 
girl  with  the  features  of  an  angel  and  the  face  of  a  fool. 

In  the  case  of  "  He  Fell  in  Love  with  his  Wife,"  I  merely 
saw  a  paragraph  in  a  paper  to  the  effect  that  a  middle-aged 
widower,  having  found  it  next  to  impossible  to  carry  on  his 
farm  with  hired  help,  had  gone  to  the  county  poor-house  and 
said,  "  If  there  's  a  decent  woman  here,  I  '11  marry  her."  For 
years  the  homely  item  remained  an  ungerminating  seed  in  my 
mind,  then  started  to  grow,  and  the  story  was  written  in  two 
months. 

My  war  experience  has  naturally  made  the  picturesque  phases 
of  the  Great  Conflict  attractive  material.  In  the  future  I  hope 


26  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

to  avail  myself  still  further  of  interesting  periods  in  American 
history. 

I  find  that  my  love  of  horticulture  and  out-door  life  has  grown 
with  the  years.    I  do  not  pretend  to  scientific  accuracy  or  knowl 
edge.    On  the  contrary,  I  have  regarded  plants  and  birds  rather 
as  neighbors,  and  have  associated  with  them.    When  giving  up 
my  parish,  I  bought  a  place  in  the  near  vicinity  of  the  house 
in  which  I  had  spent  my  childhood.    The  front  windows  of  our 
house  command  a  noble  view  of  the  Hudson,  while  on  the  east 
and  south  the  Highlands  are  within  rifle-shot.    For  several  years 
I  hesitated  to  trust  solely  to  literary  work  for  support.     As  I 
have  said,  not  a  few  critics  insisted  that  my  books  should  not 
be  read,  and  would  soon  cease  to  be  read.    But  whether  the  pre 
diction  should  prove  true  or  not,  I  knew  in  any  case  that  the 
critics  themselves  would  eat  my  strawberries  ;  so  I  made  the 
culture  of  small  fruits  the  second  string  to  my  bow.    This  busi 
ness  speedily  took  the  form  of  growing  plants  for  sale,  and  was 
developing  rapidly,  when  financial  misfortune  led  to  my  failure 
and  the  devotion  of  my  entire  time  to  writing.     Perhaps  it  was 
just  as  well  in  the  end,  for  my  health  was  being  undermined  by 
too  great  and  conflicting  demands  on  my  energy.     In  1878,  at 
Dr.  Holland's  request,  I  wrote  a  series  of  papers  on  small  fruits, 
for  "  Scribner's  Magazine,"  —  papers  that  were  expanded  into  a 
book  entitled  "  Success  with  Small  Fruits."    I  now  aim  merely 
at  an  abundant  home  supply  of  fruits  and  vegetables,  but  in  se 
curing  this,  find  pleasure  and  profit  in  testing  the  many  varieties 
catalogued  and  offered  by  nurserymen  and  seedsmen.    About 
three  years  ago  the  editor  of  "Harper's  Magazine"  asked  me 
to  write  one  or  two  papers  entitled  "  One  Acre,"  telling  its  pos 
sessor  how  to  make  the  most  and  best  of  it.    When  entering  on 
the  task,  I  found  there  was  more  in  it  than  I  had  at  first  sup 
posed.     Changing  the  title  to  "  The  Home  Acre,"  I  decided  to 
write  a  book  or  manual  which  might  be  useful  in  many  rural 
homes.     There  are  those  who  have  neither  time  nor  inclination 
to  read  the  volumes  and  journals  devoted  to  horticulture,  who 
yet  have  gardens  and  trees  in  which  they  are  interested.     They 
wish  to  learn  in  the  shortest,  clearest  way  just  what  to  do  in 
order  to  secure  success,  without  going  into  theories,  whys,  and 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  27 

wherefores,  or  concerning  themselves  with  the  higher  mysteries 
of  garden-lore.  This  work  is  now  in  course  of  preparation.  In 
brief,  my  aim  is  to  have  the  book  grow  out  of  actual  experience, 
and  not  merely  my  own,  either.  As  far  as  possible,  well-known 
experts  and  authorities  are  consulted  on  every  point.  As  a  natu 
ral  consequence,  the  book  is  growing,  like  the  plants  to  which  it 
relates.  It  cannot  be  written  "  off-hand  "  or  finished  "  on  time  " 
to  suit  any  one  except  Dame  Nature,  who,  being  feminine,  is 
often  inscrutable  and  apparently  capricious.  The  experience  of 
one  season  is  often  reversed  in  the  next,  and  the  guide  in  gar 
dening  of  whom  I  am  most  afraid  is  the  man  who  is  always  sure 
he  is  right.  It  was  my  privilege  to  have  the  late  Mr.  Charles 
Downing  as  one  of  my  teachers,  and  well  do  I  remember  how 
that  honest,  sagacious,  yet  docile  student  of  nature  would  "put 
on  the  brakes  "  when  I  was  passing  too  rapidly  to  conclusions. 
It  has  always  been  one  of  my  most  cherished  purposes  to  inter 
est  people  in  the  cultivation  of  the  soil  and  rural  life.  My  effort 
is  to  il  boil  down  "  information  to  the  simplest  and  most  prac 
tical  form.  Last  spring,  hundreds  of  varieties  of  vegetables  and 
small  fruits  were  planted.  A  carefully-written  record  is  being 
kept  from  the  time  of  planting  until  the  crop  is  gathered. 

My  methods  of  work  are  briefly  these  :  I  go  into  my  study 
immediately  after  breakfast  —  usually  about  nine  o'clock — and 
write  or  study  until  three  or  four  in  the  afternoon,  stopping 
only  for  a  light  lunch.  In  the  early  morning  and  late  after 
noon  I  go  around  my  place,  giving  directions  to  the  men,  and 
observing  the  condition  of  vegetables,  flowers,  and  trees,  and 
the  general  aspect  of  nature  at  the  time.  After  dinner,  the  even 
ing  is  devoted  to  the  family,  friends,  newspapers,  and  light  read 
ing.  In  former  years  I  wrote  at  night,  but  after  a  severe  attack 
of  insomnia  this  practice  was  almost  wholly  abandoned.  As  a 
rule,  the  greater  part  of  a  year  is  absorbed  in  the  production  of 
a  novel,  and  I  am  often  gathering  material  for  several  years  in 
advance  of  writing. 

For  manuscript  purposes  I  use  bound  blank-books  of  cheap 
paper.  My  sheets  are  thus  kept  securely  together  and  in  place, 
—  important  considerations  in  view  of  the  gales  often  blowing 
through  my  study,  and  the  habits  of  a  careless  man.  This 


28  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

method  offers  peculiar  advantages  for  interpolation,  as  there 
is  always  a  blank  page  opposite  the  one  on  which  I  am  writing. 
After  correcting  the  manuscript,  it  is  put  in  type-writing  and 
again  revised.  There  are  also  two  revisions  of  the  proof. 
While  I  do  not  shirk  the  tasks  which  approach  closely  to 
drudgery,  especially  since  my  eyesight  is  not  so  good  as  it 
was,  I  also  obtain  expert  assistance.  I  find  that  when  a  page 
has  become  very  familiar  and  I  am  rather  tired  of  it,  my  mind 
wanders  from  the  close,  fixed  attention  essential  to  the  best  use 
of  words.  Perhaps  few  are  endowed  with  both  the  inventive 
and  the  critical  faculty.  A  certain  inner  sense  enables  one  to 
know,  according  to  his  lights,  whether  the  story  itself  is  true  or 
false ;  but  elegance  of  style  is  due  chiefly  to  training,  to  a  culti 
vation  like  that  of  the  ear  for  music.  Possibly  we  are  entering 
on  an  age  in  which  the  people  care  less  for  form,  for  phrase 
ology,  than  for  what  seems  to  them  true,  real,  —  for  what,  as 
they  would  express  it,  "takes  hold  of  them."  This  is  no  plea  or 
excuse  for  careless  work,  but  rather  a  suggestion  that  the  day 
of  prolix,  fine,  flowery  writing  is  passing.  The  immense  num 
ber  of  well-written  books  in  circulation  has  made  success  with 
careless,  slovenly  manuscripts  impossible.  Publishers  and  edi 
tors  will  not  even  read,  much  less  publish  them.  Simplicity, 
lucidity,  strength,  a  plunge  in  medias  res,  are  now  the  qualities 
and  conditions  chiefly  desired,  rather  than  finely-turned  sen 
tences  in  which  it  is  apparent  more  labor  has  been  expended 
on  the  vehicle  than  on  what  it  contains.  The  questions  of  this 
eager  age  are,  What  has  he  to  say  ?  Does  it  interest  us  ?  As 
an  author,  I  have  felt  that  my  only  chance  of  gaining  and  keep 
ing  the  attention  of  men  and  women  was  to  know,  to  understand 
them,  to  feel  with  and  for  them  in  what  constituted  their  life. 
Failing  to  do  this,  why  should  a  line  of  my  books  be  read  ? 
Who  reads  a  modern  novel  from  sense  of  duty  ?  There  are 
classics  which  all  must  read  and  pretend  to  enjoy  whether 
capable  of  doing  so  or  not.  No  critic  has  ever  been  so  daft 
as  to  call  any  of  my  books  a  classic.  Better  books  are  unread 
because  the  writer  is  not  en  rapport  with  the  reader.  The  time 
has  passed  when  either  the  theologian,  the  politician,  or  the 
critic  can  take  the  American  citizen  metaphorically  by  the 


"A  NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  XOE."  2$ 

shoulder  and  send  him  along  the  path  in  which  they  think  he 
should  go.  He  has  become  the  most  independent  being  in 
the  world,  good-humoredly  tolerant  of  the  beliefs  and  fancies 
of  others,  while  reserving,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  right 
to  think  for  himself. 

In  appealing  to  the  intelligent  American  public,  choosing  for 
itself  among  the  multitude  of  books  now  offered,  it  is  my  creed 
that  an  author  should  maintain  completely  and  thoroughly  his 
own  individuality,  and  take  the  consequences.  He  cannot  con 
jure  strongly  by  imitating  any  one,  or  by  representing  any  school 
or  fashion.  He  must  do  his  work  conscientiously,  for  his  read 
ers  know  by  instinct  whether  or  not  they  are  treated  seriously 
and  with  respect.  Above  all,  he  must  understand  men  and 
women  sufficiently  to  interest  them  ;  for  all  the  "  powers  that 
be  "  cannot  compel  them  to  read  a  book  they  do  not  like. 

My  early  experience  in  respect  to  my  books  in  the  British 
Dominions  has  been  similar  to  that  of  many  others.  My  first 
stories  were  taken  by  one  or  more  publishers  without  saying 
"  by  your  leave,"  and  no  returns  made  of  any  kind.  As  time 
passed,  Messrs.  Ward,  Locke  &  Co.,  more  than  any  other  house, 
showed  a  disposition  to  treat  me  fairly.  Increasing  sums  were 
given  for  successive  books.  Recently  Mr.  George  Locke  visited 
me,  and  offered  liberal  compensation  for  each  new  novel.  He 
also  agreed  to  give  me  five  per  cent  copyright  on  all  my  old 
books  published  by  him,  no  matter  how  obtained,  in  some  in 
stances  revoking  agreements  which  precluded  the  making  of 
any  such  request  on  my  part.  In  the  case  of  many  of  these 
books  he  has  no  protection,  for  they  are  published  by  others ; 
but  he  takes  the  simple  ground  that  he  will  not  sell  any  of  my 
books  without  giving  me  a  share  in  the  profit.  Such  honorable 
action  should  tend  to  make  piracy  more  odious  than  ever,  on 
both  sides  of  the  sea.  Other  English  firms  have  offered  me 
the  usual  royalty,  and  I  now  believe  that  in  spite  of  our  House  of 
Mis-Representatives  at  Washington,  the  majority  of  the  British 
publishers  are  disposed  to  deal  justly  and  honorably  by  Amer 
ican  writers.  In  my  opinion,  the  Lower  House  in  Congress  has 
libelled  and  slandered  the  American  people  by  acting  as  if  their 
constituents,  with  thievish  instincts,  chuckled  over  pennies  saved 


30  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

when  buying  pirated  books.  This  great,  rich,  prosperous  nation 
has  been  made  a  "  fence,"  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  and  shame 
lessly  committed  to  the  crime  for  which  poor  wretches  are  sent 
to  jail.  Truly,  when  history  is  written,  and  it  is  learned  that 
the  whole  power  and  statesmanship  of  the  government  were  en 
listed  in  behalf  of  the  pork  interest,  while  the  literature  of  the 
country  and  the  literary  class  were  contemptuously  ignored, 
it  may  be  that  the  present  period  will  become  known  as  the 
Pork  Era  of  the  Republic.  It  is  a  strange  fact  that  English 
publishers  are  recognizing  our  rights  in  advance  of  our  own 
law-makers. 

In  relating  his  experience  in  the  pages  of  this  magazine,  Mr. 
Julian  Hawthorne  said  in  effect  that  one  of  the  best  rewards  of 
the  literary  life  was  the  friends  it  enabled  the  writer  to  make. 
When  giving  me  his  friendship,  he  proved  how  true  this  is. 
In  my  experience  the  literary  class  make  good,  genial,  honest 
friends,  while  their  keen,  alert  minds  and  knowledge  of  life  in 
many  of  its  most  interesting  aspects  give  an  unfailing  charm  to 
their  society.  One  can  maintain  the  most  cordial  and  intimate 
relations  with  editors  of  magazines  and  journals  if  he  will  re 
cognize  that  such  relations  should  have  no  influence  whatever 
in  the  acceptance  or  declination  of  manuscripts.  I  am  con 
stantly  receiving  letters  from  literary  aspirants  who  appear  to 
think  that  if  I  will  use  a  little  influence,  their  stories  or  papers 
would  be  taken  and  paid  for.  I  have  no  such  influence,  nor 
do  I  wish  any,  in  regard  to  my  own  work.  The  conscientious 
editor's  first  duty  is  to  his  periodical  and  its  constituents,  and 
he  would  and  should  be  more  scrupulous  in  accepting  a  manu 
script  from  a  friend  than  from  a  stranger.  To  show  resentment 
because  a  manuscript  is  returned  is  absurd,  however  great  may 
be  our  disappointment. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  perplexing  and  often  painful  expe 
riences  of  an  author  comes  from  the  appeals  of  those  who  hope 
through  him  to  obtain  immediate  recognition  as  writers.  One 
is  asked  to  read  manuscripts  and  commend  them  to  publishers, 
or  at  least  to  give  an  opinion  in  regard  to  them,  often  to  revise 
or  even  to  rewrite  certain  portions.  I  remember  that  during 
one  month  I  was  asked  to  do  work  on  the  manuscripts  of  stran- 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  31 

gers  that  would  require  about  a  year  of  my  time.  The  maker 
of  such  request  does  not  realize  that  he  or  she  is  but  one 
among  many,  and  that  the  poor  author  would  have  to  abandon 
all  hope  of  supporting  his  family  if  he  tried  to  comply.  The 
majority  who  thus  appeal  to  one  know  next  to  nothing  of  the 
literary  life  or  the  conditions  of  success.  They  write  to  the  au 
thor  in  perfect  good  faith,  often  relating  circumstances  which 
touch  his  sympathies ;  yet  if  you  tell  them  the  truth  about  their 
manuscript,  or  say  you  have  not  time  to  read  it,  adding  that 
you  have  no  influence  with  editors  or  publishers  beyond  secur 
ing  a  careful  examination  of  what  is  written,  you  feel  that  you 
are  often  set  down  as  a  churl,  and  your  inability  to  comply 
with  their  wishes  is  regarded  as  the  selfishness  and  arrogance 
of  success.  The  worried  author  has  also  his  own  compunc 
tions,  for  while  he  has  tried  so  often  and  vainly  to  secure  the 
recognition  requested,  till  he  is  in  despair  of  such  effort,  he 
still  is  haunted  by  the  fear  that  he  may  overlook  some  genius 
whom  it  would  be  a  delight  to  guide  through  what  seems  a 
thorny  jungle  to  the  inexperienced. 

In  recalling  the  past,  one  remembers  when  he  stood  in  such 
sore  need  of  friends  that  he  dislikes  even  the  appearance  of 
passing  by  on  the  other  side.  There  are  no  riches  in  the  world 
like  stanch  friends  v/ho  prove  themselves  to  be  such  in  your 
need,  your  adversity,  or  your  weakness.  I  have  some  treas 
ured  letters  received  after  it  had  been  telegraphed  throughout 
the  land  that  I  was  a  bankrupt  and  had  found  myself  many 
thousands  of  dollars  worse  off  than  nothing.  The  kindly  words 
and  looks,  the  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand,  and  the  temporary 
loan  occasionally,  of  those  who  stood  by  me  when  scarcely 
sane  from  overwork,  trouble,  and,  worse  than  all,  from  insom 
nia,  can  never  be  forgotten  while  a  trace  of  memory  is  left. 
Soon  after  my  insolvency  there  came  a  date  when  all  my  in 
terests  in  my  books  then  published  must  be  sold  to  the  highest 
bidder.  It  seemed  in  a  sense  like  putting  my  children  up  at 
auction ;  and  yet  I  was  powerless,  since  my  interests  under 
contracts  were  a  part  of  my  assets.  These  rights  had  been 
well  advertised  in  the  New  York  and  county  papers,  as  the 
statute  required,  and  the  popularity  of  the  books  was  well 


32  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

known.  Any  one  in  the  land  could  have  purchased  these 
books  from  me  forever.  A  friend  made  the  highest  bid  and 
secured  the  property.  My  rights  in  my  first  nine  novels  be 
came  his,  legally  and  absolutely.  There  was  even  no  verbal 
agreement  between  us,  —  nothing  but  his  kind,  honest  eyes  to 
reassure  me.  He  not  only  paid  the  sum  he  had  bidden,  but 
then  and  there  wrote  a  check  for  a  sum  which,  with  my  other 
assets,  immediately  liquidated  my  personal  debts,  principal  and 
interest.  The  children  of  my  fancy  are  again  my  children,  for 
they  speedily  earned  enough  to  repay  my  friend  and  to  enable 
him  to  compromise  with  the  holders  of  indorsed  notes  in  a  way 
satisfactory  to  them.  It  so  happened  that  most  of  these  creditors 
resided  in  my  immediate  neighborhood.  I  determined  to  fight 
out  the  battle  in  their  midst  and  under  their  daily  observation, 
and  to  treat  all  alike,  without  regard  to  their  legal  claims. 
Only  one  creditor  tried  to  make  life  a  burden  ;  but  he  did  his 
level  best.  The  others  permitted  me  to  meet  my  obligations 
in  my  own  time  and  way,  and  I  am  grateful  for  their  considera 
tion.  When  all  had  received  the  sum  mutually  agreed  upon, 
and  I  had  shaken  hands  with  them,  I  went  to  the  quaint  and 
quiet  little  city  of  Santa  Barbara,  on  the  Pacific  coast,  for  a 
change  and  partial  rest.  While  there,  however,  I  wrote  my 
Charleston  story,  "  The  Earth  Trembled."  In  September, 
1887,  I  returned  to  my  home  at  Cornwall-on-the-Hudson,  and 
resumed  my  work  in  a  region  made  dear  by  the  memories  of  a 
lifetime.  Just  now  I  am  completing  a  Southern  story  entitled 
"  Miss  Lou." 

It  so  happens  in  my  experience  that  I  have  discovered  one 
who  appears  willing  to  stick  closer  to  me  than  a  brother,  and 
even  to  pass  as  my  "double,"  or  else  he  is  so  helplessly  in  the 
hands  of  his  publishers  as  to  be  an  object  of  pity.  A  certain 
"  Edward  R.  Roe  "  is  also  an  author,  and  is  suffering  cruelly 
in  reputation  because  his  publishers  so  manage  that  he  is  iden 
tified  with  me.  By  strange  coincidence,  they  hit  upon  a  cover 
for  his  book  which  is  almost  a  fac-simile  of  the  cover  of  my 
pamphlet  novel,  "  An  Original  Belle,"  previously  issued.  The 
R  in  the  name  of  this  unfortunate  man  has  been  furnished  with 
such  a  diminutive  tail  that  it  passes  for  a  P,  and  even  my 


"A   NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE."  33 

friends  supposed  that  the  book,  offered  everywhere  for  sale, 
was  mine.  In  many  instances  I  have  asked  at  news-stands, 
"  Whose  book  is  that  ?  "  The  prompt  and  invariable  answer 
has  been,  "  E.  P.  Roe's."  I  have  seen  book-notices  in  which 
the  volume  was  ascribed  to  me  in  anything  but  flattering  terms. 
A  distinguished  judge,  in  a  carefully-written  opinion,  is  so  un 
charitable  as  to  characterize  the  coincidence  in  cover  as  a 
"fraud,"  and  to  say,  "  No  one  can  look  at  the  covers  of  the  two 
publications  and  fail  to  see  evidence  of  a  design  to  deceive  the 
public  and  to  infringe  upon  the  rights  of  the  publisher  and 
author,"  —  that  is,  the  rights  of  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  and 
of  E.  P.  Roe.  Some  well-known  journalists  show  honest  indig 
nation,  and  also  employ  the  terms  "  fraud  "  and  "  trading  on 
another  man's  reputation ; "  others  condescend  to  explain,  to 
state  the  case;  and  others  still,  with  coruscations  of  wit,  point 
out  that  one  Roe  is  as  bad  as  the  other,  and  so  it  does  n't 
matter  much.  Now,  all  this  places  the  said  "  Edward  R.  Roe" 
in  a  pitiable  plight.  He  is  either  regarded  as  the  victim,  per 
haps  the  accomplice  of  his  publishers,  or  else  is  identified  with 
a  "  native  author  called  Roe."  My  publishers,  Messrs.  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Co.,  with  their  lawyers,  are  coming  to  his  aid  in  a  suit 
to  enjoin  the  publication  in  its  present  guise  of  the  book  which 
is  perilling  his  reputation,  if  not  mine.  Let  me  suggest  to  the 
Western  Roe  that  he  find  publishers  who  will  permit  him  to 
shine  undimmed  by  the  shadows  cast  by  my  literary  sins. 

Let  me  close  with  yet  one  more  bit  of  experience.  My 
books  from  the  first  have  been  substantially  in  the  hands  of 
one  publishing-house.  I  believe  that  it  has  been  to  my  advan 
tage  ;  and  it  would  be  well,  as  a  rule,  for  other  writers  to  begin 
with  reputable,  honorable  publishers  and  to  remain  with  them. 
A  publisher  can  do  more  and  better  with  a  line  of  books  than 
with  isolated  volumes.  When  an  author's  books  are  scattered, 
there  is  not  sufficient  inducement  for  any  one  to  push  them 
strongly,  nor,  as  in  the  case  above  related,  to  protect  a  writer 
against  a  "double,"  should  one  appear.  Authors  often  know 
little  about  business,  and  should  deal  with  a  publisher  who  will 
look  after  their  interests  as  truly  as  his  own.  Unbusiness-like 
habits  and  methods  are  certainly  not  traits  to  be  cultivated,  for 

3 


34  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

we  often  suffer  grievously  from  their  existence ;  yet  as  far  as 
possible  the  author  should  be  free  from  distracting  cares.  The 
novelist  does  his  best  work  when  abstracted  from  the  actual 
world  and  living  in  its  ideal  counterpart  which  for  the  time  he 
is  imagining.  When  his  creative  work  is  completed,  he  should 
live  very  close  to  the  real  world,  or  else  he  will  be  imagining  a 
state  of  things  which  neither  God  nor  man  had  any  hand  in 
bringing  about. 


TAKEN    ALIVE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SOMETHING    BEFORE    UNKNOWN. 

f~^  LARA  HEYWARD  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and 
it  was  evident  that  the  emblems  of  bereavement  were 
not  worn  merely  in  compliance  with  a  social  custom.  Her 
face  was  pallid  from  grief,  and  her  dark  beautiful  eyes  were 
dim  from  much  weeping.  She  sat  in  the  little  parlor  of  a 
cottage  located  in  a  large  Californian  city,  and  listened  with 
apathetic  expression  as  a  young  man  pleaded  for  the  great 
est  and  most  sacred  gift  that  a  woman  can  bestow.  Ralph 
Brandt  was  a  fine  type  of  young  vigorous  manhood  ;  and  we 
might  easily  fancy  that  his  strong,  resolute  face,  now  elo 
quent  with  deep  feeling,  was  not  one  upon  which  a  girl 
could  look  with  indifference.  Clara's  words,  however,  re 
vealed  the  apparent  hopelessness  of  his  suit. 

"  It 's  of  no  use,  Ralph,"  she  said  ;  "  I  'm  in  no  mood  for 
such  thoughts." 

"You  don't  believe  in  me;  you  don't  trust  me,"  he  re 
sumed  sadly.  "You  think  that  because  I  was  once  wild, 
and  even  worse,  that  I  '11  not  be  true  to  my  promises  and 
live  an  honest  life.  Have  I  not  been  honest  when  I  knew 
that  being  so  might  cost  me  dear?  Have  I  not  told  you 
of  my  past  life  and  future  purposes  when  I  might  have  con 
cealed  almost  everything?  " 


36  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  It 's  not  that,  Ralph.  I  do  believe  you  are  sincere ;  and 
if  the  dreadful  thing  which  has  broken  me  down  with  sor 
row  had  not  happened,  all  might  have  been  as  you  wish.  I 
should  have  quite  as  much  confidence  in  a  young  man  who, 
like  you,  has  seen  evil  and  turned  resolutely  away  from  it, 
as  in  one  who  did  n't  know  much  about  the  world  or  himself 
either.  What 's  more,  father  — 

At  the  word  "  father  "  her  listless  manner  vanished,  and 
she  gave  way  to  passionate  sobs.  "  His  foul  murder  is 
always  before  me,"  she  wailed.  "  Oh,  we  were  so  happy  1 
he  was  so  kind,  and  made  me  his  companion  !  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  live  without  him.  I  can't  think  of  love  and  mar 
riage  when  I  remember  how  he  died,  and  that  the  villain 
who  killed  him  is  at  large  and  unpunished.  What  right 
have  I  to  forget  this  great  wrong  and  to  try  to  be  happy? 
No,  no  !  the  knife  that  killed  him  pierced  my  heart ;  and 
it 's  bleeding  all  the  time.  I  'm  not  fit  to  be  any  man's 
wife ;  and  I  will  not  bring  my  great  sorrow  into  any  man's 
home." 

Brandt  sprang  up  and  paced  the  room  for  a  few  moments, 
his  brow  contracted  in  deep  thought.  Then,  apparently 
coming  to  a  decision,  he  sat  down  by  his  companion  and 
took  her  cold,  unresisting  hand. 

"  My  poor  little  girl,"  he  said  kindly,  "  you  don't  half  un 
derstand  me  yet.  I  love  you  all  the  more  because  you  are 
heart-broken  and  pale  with  grief.  That  is  the  reason  I  have 
spoken  so  earnestly  to-night.  You  will  grieve  yourself  to 
death  if  left  alone ;  and  what  good  would  your  death  do 
any  one?  It  would  spoil  my  life.  Believe  me,  I  would 
welcome  you  to  my  home  with  all  your  sorrow,  —  all  the 
more  because  of  your  sorrow ;  and  I  'd  be  so  kind  and  pa 
tient  that  you  'd  begin  to  smile  again  some  day.  That 's 
what  your  father  would  wish  if  he  could  speak  to  you,  and 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  37 

not  that  you  should  grieve  away  your  life  for  what  can't  be 
helped  now.  But  I  have  a  plan.  It's  right  in  my  line  to 
capture  such  scoundrels  as  the  man  who  murdered  your 
father ;  and  what 's  more,  I  know  the  man,  or  rather  I  used  to 
in  old  times.  I  've  played  many  a  game  of  euchre  with  him 
in  which  he  cheated  me  out  of  money  that  I  'd  be  glad  to 
have  now ;  and  I  'm  satisfied  that  he  does  not  know  of  any 
change  in  me.  I  was  away  on  distant  detective  duty,  you 
know,  when  your  father  was  killed.  I  won't  ask  you  to  go 
over  the  painful  circumstances ;  I  can  learn  them  at  the 
prison.  I  shall  try  to  get  permission  to  search  out  Bute, 
desperate  and  dangerous  as  he  is  —  " 

"  Oh,  Ralph,  Ralph,"  cried  the  girl,  springing  up,  her  eyes 
flashing  through  her  tears,  "  if  you  will  bring  my  father's 
murderer  to  justice,  if  you  will  prevent  him  from  destroy 
ing  other  lives,  as  he  surely  will,  you  will  find  that  I  can 
refuse  you  nothing." 

Then  she  paused,  shook  her  head  sadly,  and  withdrew  the 
hand  she  had  given  him.  "No,"  she  resumed,  "I  shouldn't 
ask  this ;  I  don't  ask  it.  As  you  say,  he  is  desperate  and 
dangerous;  and  he  would  take  your  life  the  moment  he 
dreamed  of  your  purpose.  I  should  only  have  another 
cause  for  sorrow." 

Brandt  now  smiled  as  if  he  were  master  of  the  situation. 
"Why,  Clara,"  he  exclaimed,  "don't  you  know  that  run 
ning  down  and  capturing  desperadoes  is  now  part  of  my 
business?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  you  can  get  plenty  of  work  that  is  n't  so 
dangerous." 

"  I  should  be  a  nice  fellow  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife  and 
yet  show  I  was  afraid  to  arrest  your  father's  murderer.  You 
need  n't  ask  me  to  do  this ;  you  are  not  going  to  be  respon 
sible  for  my  course  in  the  least.  I  shall  begin  operations 


38  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

this  very  night,  and  have  no  doubt  that  I  can  get  a  chance 
to  work  on  the  case.  Now  don't  burden  your  heart  with 
any  thoughts  about  my  danger.  I  myself  owe  Bute  as  big 
a  grudge  as  I  can  have  against  any  human  being.  He 
cheated  me  and  led  me  into  deviltry  years  ago,  and  then  I 
lost  sight  of  him  until  he  was  brought  to  the  prison  of  which 
your  father  was  one  of  the  keepers.  I  Ve  been  absent  for 
the  last  three  months,  you  know ;  but  I  did  n't  forget  you  or 
your  father  a  day,  and  you  remember  I  wrote  you  as  soon  as 
I  heard  of  your  trouble.  I  think  your  father  sort  of  believed 
in  me ;  he  never  made  me  feel  I  was  n't  fit  to  see  you  or 
to  be  with  you,  and  I  'd  do  more  for  him  living  or  dead 
than  for  any  other  man." 

"  He  did  believe  in  you,  Ralph,  and  he  always  spoke  well 
of  you.  Oh,  you  can't  know  how  much  I  lost  in  him  ! 
After  mother  died  he  did  not  leave  me  to  the  care  of  stran 
gers,  but  gave  me  most  of  his  time  when  off  duty.  He  sent 
me  to  the  best  schools,  bought  me  books  to  read,  and  took 
me  out  evenings  instead  of  going  off  by  himself  as  so  many 
men  do.  He  was  so  kind  and  so  brave ;  oh,  oh  !  you 
know  he  lost  his  life  by  trying  to  do  his  duty  when  another 
man  would  have  given  up.  Bute  and  two  others  broke 
jail.  Father  saw  one  of  his  assistants  stabbed,  and  he  was 
knocked  down  himself.  He  might  have  remained  quiet  and 
escaped  with  a  few  bruises ;  but  he  caught  Bute's  foot,  and 
then  the  wretch  turned  and  stabbed  him.  He  told  me  all 
with  his  poor  pale  lips  before  he  died.  Oh,  oh  !  when  shall 
I  forget?  " 

"  You  can  never  forget,  dear ;  I  don't  ask  anything  con 
trary  to  nature.  You  were  a  good  daughter,  and  so  I  believe 
you  will  be  a  good  wife.  But  if  I  bring  the  murderer  to 
justice,  you  will  feel  that  a  great  wrong  has  been  righted,  — 
that  all  has  been  done  that  can  be  done.  Then  you  '11 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  39 

begin  to  think  that  your  father  would  n't  wish  you  to  grieve 
yourself  to  death,  and  that  as  he  tried  to  make  you  happy 
while  he  was  living,  so  he  will  wish  you  to  be  happy  now 
he  's  gone." 

"  It  is  n't  a  question  of  happiness.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I 
could  ever  be  happy  again ;  and  so  I  don't  see  how  I  can 
make  you  or  any  one  else  happy." 

"  That 's  my  look-out,  Clara.  I  'd  be  only  too  glad  to 
take  you  as  you  are.  Come,  now,  this  is  December.  If  I 
bring  Bute  in  by  Christmas,  what  will  you  give  me?  " 

She  silently  and  eloquently  gave  him  her  hand ;  but  her 
lips  quivered  so  she  could  not  speak.  He  kissed  her  hand 
as  gallantly  as  any  olden-time  knight,  then  added  a  little 
brusquely,  — 

"  See  here,  little  girl,  I  'm  not  going  to  bind  you  by 
anything  that  looks  like  a  bargain.  I  shall  attempt  all 
I  Ve  said ;  and  then  on  Christmas,  or  whenever  I  get  back, 
I  '11  speak  my  heart  to  you  again  just  as  I  have  spoken 
now." 

"  When  a  man  acts  as  you  do,  Ralph,  any  girl  would  find 
it  hard  to  keep  free.  I  shall  follow  you  night  and  day  with 
my  thoughts  and  prayers." 

"  Well,  I  'm  superstitious  enough  to  believe  that  I  shall 
be  safer  and  more  successful  on  account  of  them.  Clara, 
look  me  in  the  eyes  before  I  go." 

She  looked  up  to  his  clear  gray  eyes  as  requested. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  forget  one  who  is  dead ;  but  don't 
you  see  how  much  you  are  to  one  who  is  living?  Don't  you 
see  that  in  spite  of  all  your  sorrow  you  can  still  give  happi 
ness?  Now,  be  as  generous  and  kind  as  you  can.  Don't 
grieve  hopelessly  while  I  'm  gone.  That 's  what  is  killing 
you ;  and  the  thought  of  it  fills  me  with  dread.  Try  to  think 
that  you  still  have  something  and  some  one  to  live  for.  Per- 


40  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

haps  you  can  learn  to  love  me  a  little  if  you  try,  and  then 
everything  won't  look  so  black.  If  you  find  you  can't  love 
me,  I  won't  blame  you ;  and  if  I  lose  you  as  my  wife,  you 
won't  lose  a  true,  honest  friend." 

For  the  first  time  the  girl  became  vaguely  conscious  of 
the  possibility  of  an  affection,  a  tie  superseding  all  others ; 
she  began  to  see  how  it  was  possible  to  give  herself  to  this 
man,  not  from  an  impulse  of  gratitude  or  because  she  liked 
him  better  than  any  one  else,  but  because  of  a  feeling,  new, 
mysterious,  which  gave  him  a  sort  of  divine  right  in  her. 
Something  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes  had  been  more 
potent  than  his  words ;  something  subtle,  swift  as  an  elec 
tric  spark  had  passed  from  him  to  her,  awakening  a  faint, 
strange  tumult  in  the  heart  she  thought  so  utterly  crushed. 
A  few  moments  before,  she  could  have  promised  resolutely 
to  be  his  wife ;  she  could  have  permitted  his  embrace  with 
unresponsive  apathy.  Now  she  felt  a  sudden  shyness.  A 
faint  color  stole  into  her  pale  face,  and  she  longed  to  be 
alone. 

"  Ralph,"  she  faltered,  "  you  are  so  generous,  I  —  I  don't 
know  what  to  say." 

"  You  need  n't  say  anything  till  I  come  back.  If  possible, 
I  will  be  here  by  Christmas,  for  you  should  n't  be  alone  that 
day  with  your  grief.  Good-by." 

The  hand  she  gave  him  trembled,  and  her  face  was  averted 
now. 

"You  will  try  to  love  me  a  little,  won't  you?  " 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  41 

CHAPTER    II. 

A    VISITOR    AT   THE    MINE. 

13  ALPH  BRANDT  was  admirably  fitted  for  the  task  he 
A  had  undertaken.  With  fearlessness  he  united  imperturb 
able  coolness  and  unwearied  patience  in  pursuit  of  an  object. 
Few  knew  him  in  his  character  of  detective,  and  no  one 
would  have  singled  him  out  as  an  expert  in  his  calling. 
The  more  difficult  and  dangerous  the  work,  the  more  care 
less  and  indifferent  his  manner,  giving  the  impression  to 
superficial  observers  of  being  the  very  last  person  to  be 
intrusted  with  responsible  duty.  But  his  chief  and  others 
on  the  force  well  knew  that  beneath  Brandt's  careless  de 
meanor  was  concealed  the  relentless  pertinacity  of  a  blood 
hound  on  track  of  its  victim.  With  the  trait  of  dogged 
pursuit  all  resemblance  to  the  blood-thirsty  animal  ceased: 
and  even  the  worst  of  criminals  found  him  kind-hearted 
and  good-natured  after  they  were  within  his  power.  Fail 
ure  was  an  idea  not  to  be  entertained.  If  the  man  to  be 
caught  existed,  he  could  certainly  be  found,  was  the  principle 
on  which  our  officer  acted. 

He  readily  obtained  permission  to  attempt  the  capture  of 
the  escaped  prisoner,  Bute ;  but  the  murderer  had  disap 
peared,  leaving  no  clew.  Brandt  learned  that  the  slums  of 
large  cities  and  several  mining  camps  had  been  searched 
in  vain,  also  that  the  trains  running  east  had  been  carefully 
watched.  We  need  not  try  to  follow  his  processes  of  thought, 
nor  seek  to  learn  how  he  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
his  man  was  at  some  distant  mining  station  working  under 
an  assumed  name.  By  a  kind  of  instinct  his  mind  kept 


42  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

reverting  to  one  of  these  stations  with  increasing  frequency. 
It  was  not  so  remote  in  respect  to  mere  distance ;  but  it 
was  isolated,  off  the  lines  of  travel,  with  a  gap  of  seventy 
miles  between  it  and  what  might  be  termed  civilization,  and 
was  suspected  of  being  a  sort  of  refuge  for  hard  characters 
and  fugitives  from  justice.  Bute,  when  last  seen,  was  mak 
ing  for  the  mountains  in  the  direction  of  this  mine.  In 
vested  with  ample  authority  to  bring  in  the  outlaw  dead  or 
alive,  Brandt  followed  this  vague  clew. 

One  afternoon  Mr.  Alford,  the  superintendent  of  the 
mine,  was  informed  that  a  man  wished  to  see  him.  There 
was  ushered  into  his  private  office  an  elderly  gentleman 
who  appeared  as  if  he  might  be  a  prospecting  capitalist  or 
one  of  the  owners  of  the  mine.  The  superintendent  was 
kept  in  doubt  as  to  the  character  of  the  visitor  for  a  few 
moments  while  Brandt  sought  by  general  remarks  and  lead 
ing  questions  to  learn  the  disposition  of  the  man  who 
must,  from  the  necessities  of  the  case,  become  to  some  ex 
tent  his  ally  in  securing  the  ends  of  justice.  Apparently 
the  detective  was  satisfied,  for  he  asked  suddenly, — 

"  By  the  way,  have  you  a  man  in  your  employ  by  the 
name  of  Bute?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Alford,  with  a  little  surprise. 

"  Have  you  a  man,  then,  who  answers  to  the  following 
description?"  He  gave  a  brief  word  photograph  of  the 
criminal. 

"You  want  this  man? "  Mr.  Alford  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  really,  sir,  I  would  like  to  know  your  motive, 
indeed,  I  may  add,  your  authority,  for  — ' 

"There  it  is,"  Brandt  smilingly  remarked,  handing  the 
superintendent  a  paper. 

"  Oh  certainly,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Alford,  after  a  mo- 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  43 

ment.  "  This  is  all  right ;  and  I  am  bound  to  do  nothing 
to  obstruct  you  in  the  performance  of  your  duty."  He  now 
carefully  closed  the  door  and  added,  "  What  do  you  want 
this  man  for?" 

"  It 's  a  case  of  murder." 

"  Phew  !  Apparently  he  is  one  of  the  best  men  on  the 
force." 

"Only  apparently;  I  know  him  well." 

Mr.  Alford's  brow  clouded  with  anxiety,  and  after  a  mo 
ment  he  said,  "Mr.  —  how  shall  I  address  you?" 

"  You  had  better  continue  to  call  me  by  the  name  under 
which  I  was  introduced,  —  Brown." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brown,  you  have  a  very  difficult  and  hazard 
ous  task,  and  you  must  be  careful  how  you  involve  me  in 
your  actions.  I  shall  not  lay  a  straw  in  your  way,  but  I 
cannot  openly  help  you.  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  get  labor 
here  at  best ;  and  it  is  understood  that  I  ask  no  questions 
and  deal  with  men  on  the  basis  simply  of  their  relations  to 
me.  As  long  as  I  act  on  this  understanding,  I  can  keep 
public  sentiment  with  me  and  enforce  some  degree  of 
discipline.  If  it  were  known  that  I  was  aiding  or  abetting 
you  in  the  enterprise  you  have  in  hand,  my  life  would  not 
be  worth  a  rush.  There  are  plenty  in  camp  who  would 
shoot  me,  just  as  they  would  you  should  they  learn  of  your 
design.  I  fear  you  do  not  realize  what  you  are  attempting. 
A  man  like  yourself,  elderly  and  alone,  has  no  better  chance 
of  taking  such  a  fellow  as  you  describe  Bute  to  be,  than  of 
carrying  a  ton  of  ore  on  his  back  down  the  mountain.  In 
all  sincerity,  sir,  I  must  advise  you  to  depart  quietly  and 
expeditiously,  and  give  no  one  besides  myself  a  hint  of  your 
errand." 

"  Will  you  please  step  into  the  outer  office  and  make 
sure  that  no  one  is  within  ear- shot,"  said  Brandt,  quietly. 


44  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

When  Mr.  Alford  returned,  the  elderly  man  apparently 
had  disappeared,  and  a  smiling  smooth-faced  young  fellow 
with  short  brown  hair  sat  in  his  place.  His  host  stared, 
the  transformation  was  so  great. 

"  Mr.  Alford,"  said  the  detective,  "  I  understand  my 
business  and  the  risks  it  involves.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  that 
I  may  not  be  interfered  with  so  far  as  you  are  concerned  ; 
and  my  chief  object  in  calling  is  to  prevent  your  being  sur 
prised  by  anything  you  may  see  or  hear.  About  three 
miles  or  thereabouts  from  here,  on  the  road  running  east, 
there  is  a  fellow  who  keeps  a  tavern.  Do  you  know  him?  " 

"  I  know  no  good  of  him.  He 's  the  worst  nuisance 
I  have  to  contend  with,  for  he  keeps  some  of  my  men 
disabled  much  of  the  time." 

"  Well,  I  knew  Bute  years  ago,  and  I  can  make  him 
think  I  am  now  what  I  was  then,  only  worse ;  and  I  will  in 
duce  him  to  go  with  me  to  raid  that  tavern.  If  this  plan 
fails,  I  shall  try  another,  for  I  am  either  going  to  take  Bute 
alive  or  else  get  ample  proof  that  he  is  dead.  There  may  be 
some  queer  goings-on  before  I  leave,  and  all  I  ask  is  that 
you  will  neither  interfere  nor  investigate.  You  may  be  as 
ignorant  and  non-committal  as  you  please.  I  shall  report 
progress  to  you,  however,  and  may  need  your  testimony, 
but  will  see  to  it  that  it  is  given  by  you  as  one  who  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  affair.  Now  please  show  me  your 
quarters,  so  that  I  can  find  you  at  night  if  need  be ;  also 
Bute's  sleeping-place  and  the  lay  of  the  land  to  some  ex 
tent.  You  '11  find  that  I  can  take  everything  in  mighty 
quick.  See,  I  'm  the  elderly  gentleman  again,"  and  he 
resumed  his  disguise  with  marvellous  celerity. 

Mr.  Alford  led  T;he  way  through  the  outer  office ;  and  the 
two  clerks  writing  there  saw  nothing  to  awaken  the  slightest 
suspicion.  The  superintendent's  cottage  stood  on  the  road 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  45 

leading  to  the  mine  and  somewhat  apart  from  the  other 
buildings.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  highway  was  a 
thicket  of  pines  which  promised  cover  until  one  plunged 
into  the  unbroken  forest  that  covered  the  mountain-side. 

Brandt  observed  this,  and  remarked,  "  I  Ve  studied  the 
approaches  to  your  place  a  little  as  I  came  along ;  but  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  give  a  day  or  two  more  to  the  work 
before  making  my  attempt." 

"Well,"  rejoined  Mr.  Alford,  who  was  of  rather  a  social 
turn  and  felt  the  isolation  of  his  life,  "why  not  be  my 
guest  for  a  time?  I'll  take  the  risk  if  you  will  remain 
incog.,  and  keep  aloof  from  the  men." 

"  That  I  should  do  in  any  event  till  ready  to  act.  Thank 
you  for  your  kindness,  for  it  may  simplify  my  task  very 
much.  I  will  see  to  it  that  I  do  not  compromise  you. 
When  I  'm  ready  to  snare  my  bird,  you  can  dismiss  me  a 
little  ostentatiously  for  New  York." 

Brandt's  horse  was  now  ordered  to  the  stable.  The  two 
men  entered  the  cottage,  and  soon  afterwards  visited  the  dif- 
fereni  points  of  interest,  Mr.  Alford  giving  the  natural  im 
pression  that  he  was  showing  an  interested  stranger  the 
appliances  for  working  the  mine.  At  one  point  he  remarked 
in  a  low  tone,  "  That 's  Bute's  lodging-place.  A  half-breed, 
named  Apache  Jack,  who  speaks  little  English  lives  with  him." 

Brandt's  seemingly  careless  and  transitory  glance  rested 
on  a  little  shanty  and  noted  that  it  was  separated  from 
others  of  its  class  by  a  considerable  interval. 

"  Bute,  you  say,  is  on  the  day-shift." 

"Yes,  he  won't  be  up  till  six  o'clock." 

"  I  '11  manage  to  see  him  then  without  his  knowing  it." 

"  Be  careful.  I  take  my  risk  on  the  ground  of  your  good 
faith  and  prudence." 

"  Don't  fear." 


46  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THWARTED. 

RANDT  maintained  his  disguise  admirably.  His  pres- 
ence  caused  little  comment,  and  he  was  spoken  of  as 
a  visiting  stockholder  of  the  mine.  During  his  walk  with 
Mr.  Alford  he  appeared  interested  only  in  machinery,  ores, 
etc.,  but  his  trained  eyes  made  a  topographical  map  of  sur 
roundings,  and  everything  centred  about  Bute's  shanty.  In 
the  evening  he  amply  returned  his  host's  hospitality  by 
comic  and  tragic  stories  of  criminal  life.  The  next  day  he 
began  to  lay  his  plans  carefully,  and  disappeared  soon  after 
breakfast  with  the  ostensible  purpose  of  climbing  a  height 
at  some  distance  for  the  sake  of  the  prospect.  He  soon 
doubled  round,  noting  every  covert  approach  to  Bute's 
lodgings.  His  eye  and  ear  were  as  quick  as  an  Indian's ; 
but  he  still  maintained,  in  case  he  was  observed,  the 
manner  of  an  elderly  stranger  strolling  about  to  view  the 
region. 

By  noon  he  felt  that  he  had  the  immediate  locality  by 
heart.  His  afternoon  task  was  to  explore  the  possibilities 
of  a  stream  that  crossed  the  mine  road  something  over  a 
mile  away,  and  for  this  purpose  he  mounted  his  horse.  He 
soon  reached  the  shallow  ford,  and  saw  that  the  water  was 
backed  up  for  a  considerable  distance,  and  that  the  shallows 
certainly  extended  around  a  high,  jutting  rock  which  hid  the 
stream  from  that  point  and  beyond  from  the  road.  The 
bed  appeared  smooth,  firm,  and  sandy,  and  he  waded  his 
horse  up  the  gentle  current  until  he  was  concealed  from  the 
highway.  A  place,  however,  was  soon  reached  where  the 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  47 

water  came  tumbling  down  over  impassable  rocks ;  and  he 
was  compelled  to  ascend  the  wooded  shore.  This  he  did 
on  the  side  nearest  to  the  mine  house,  and  found  that  with 
care  he  could  lead  his  horse  to  a  point  that  could  not  be,  he 
thought,  over  half  a  mile  from  the  superintendent's  cottage. 
Here  there  was  a  little  dell  around  which  the  pines  grew  so 
darkly  and  thickly  that  he  determined  to  make  it  his  covert 
should  he  fail  in  his  first  attempt.  His  object  now  was  to 
see  if  his  estimate  of  proximity  to  the  mine  was  correct ;  and 
leaving  his  horse,  he  pushed  up  the  mountain-side.  At 
last  he  reached  a  precipitous  ledge.  Skirting  this  a  short 
distance,  he  found  a  place  of  comparatively  easy  ascent,  and 
soon  learned  with  much  satisfaction  that  he  was  not  over 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  thicket  opposite  Mr.  Alford's 
quarters.  These  discoveries  all  favored  possible  future  op 
erations  ;  and  he  retraced  his  steps,  marking  his  returning 
path  by  bits  of  white  paper,  held  in  place  by  stones  against 
the  high,  prevailing  winds.  Near  the  spot  where  he  had 
left  his  horse  he  found  a  nook  among  the  rocks  in  which  a 
fire  would  be  well  hidden.  Having  marked  the  place  care 
fully  with  his  eye  and  obtained  his  bearings,  he  led  his 
horse  back  to  the  stream  and  reached  the  unfrequented 
road  again  without  being  observed. 

His  next  task  was  to  discover  some  kind  of  a  passage-way 
from  the  mine  road  to  a  point  on  the  main  highway,  leading 
to  the  west  and  out  of  the  mountains.  He  found  no  better 
resource  than  to  strike  directly  into  the  forest  and  travel  by 
points  of  the  compass.  Fortunately  the  trees  were  lofty  and 
comparatively  open,  and  he  encountered  no  worse  difficulties 
than  some  steep  and  rugged  descents,  and  at  last  emerged 
on  the  post  road  at  least  a  mile  to  the  west  of  the  tavern, 
which  stood  near  its  intersection  with  the  mine  road.  Re 
turning,  he  again  marked  out  a  path  with  paper  as  he  had 


48  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

before.  The  sun  was  now  low  in  the  sky ;  and  as  he  trotted 
toward  the  mine,  he  had  but  one  more  precaution  to  take, 
and  that  was  to  find  a  place  where  the  trees  were  sufficiently 
open  to  permit  him  to  ride  into  their  shade  at  night  in  case 
he  wished  to  avoid  parties  upon  the  road.  Having  indi 
cated  two  or  three  such  spots  by  a  single  bit  of  paper  that 
would  glimmer  in  the  moonlight,  he  joined  Mr.  Alford  at 
supper,  feeling  that  his  preparations  were  nearly  complete. 
When  they  were  alone,  he  told  his  host  that  it  would  be  best 
not  to  gratify  his  curiosity,  for  then  he  could  honestly  say 
that  he  knew  nothing  of  any  detective's  plans  or  where 
abouts. 

"  I  cannot  help  feeling,"  said  Mr.  Alford,  "  that  you  are 
playing  with  fire  over  a  powder  magazine.  Now  that  I  know 
you  better,  I  hate  to  think  of  the  risk  that  you  are  taking. 
It  has  troubled  me  terribly  all  day.  I  feel  as  if  we  were  on 
the  eve  of  a  tragedy.  You  had  better  leave  quietly  in  the 
morning  and  bring  a  force  later  that  would  make  resistance 
impossible,  or  else  give  it  up  altogether.  Why  should  you 
throw  away  your  life  ?  I  tell  you  again  that  if  the  men  get 
a  hint  of  your  character  or  purpose  they  will  hunt  you  to 
death." 

"  It 's  a  part  of  my  business  to  incur  such  risks,"  replied 
Brandt,  quietly.  "  Besides,  I  have  a  motive  in  this  case 
which  would  lead  me  to  take  a  man  out  of  the  jaws  of 
hell." 

"  That 's  what  you  may  find  you  are  attempting  here. 
Well,  we  're  in  for  it  now,  I  suppose,  since  you  are  so  deter 
mined." 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  appear  involved  in  the  affair  at 
all.  In  the  morning  you  give  me  a  sack  of  grain  for  my 
horse  and  some  provisions  for  myself,  and  then  bid  farewell 
to  Mr.  Brown  in  the  most  open  and  natural  manner  possible. 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  49 

You  may  not  see  me  again.  It  is  possible  I  may  have  to 
borrow  a  horse  of  you  if  my  scheme  to-night  don't  work. 
It  will  be  returned  or  paid  for  very  soon." 

"  Bute  has  a  pony.  He  brought  it  with  him,  and  he  and 
Apache  Jack  between  them  manage  to  keep  it.  They  stable 
it  nights  in  a  little  shed  back  of  their  shanty." 

"  I  had  discovered  this,  and  hope  to  take  the  man  away 
on  his  pony.  I  understand  why  Bute  keeps  the  animal. 
He  knew  that  he  might  have  to  travel  suddenly  and  fast." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Alford  parted  with  Brandt  as  had 
been  arranged,  the  latter  starting  ostensibly  for  the  nearest 
railway  station.  All  day  long  the  superintendent  was  ner 
vous  and  anxious ;  but  he  saw  no  evidences  of  suspicion  or 
uneasiness  among  those  in  his  employ. 

Brandt  rode  at  a  sharp  canter  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight, 
and  then  approached  the  stream  slowly  and  warily.  When 
satisfied  that  he  was  unobserved,  he  again  passed  up  its 
shallow  bed  around  the  concealing  rock,  and  sought  his 
hiding-place  on  the  mountain-side.  Aware  that  the  com 
ing  nights  might  require  ceaseless  activity,  his  first  measure 
was  to  secure  a  few  hours  of  sound  sleep ;  and  he  had  so 
trained  himself  that  he  could,  as  it  were,  store  up  rest  against 
long  and  trying  emergencies.  The  rocks  sheltered  him 
against  the  wind,  and  a  fire  gave  all  the  comfort  his  hardy 
frame  required,  as  he  reposed  on  his  couch  of  pine-needles. 
Early  in  the  afternoon  he  fed  his  horse,  took  a  hearty  meal 
himself,  and  concealed  the  remaining  store  so  that  no  wild 
creatures  could  get  at  it.  At  early  twilight  he  returned  by 
way  of  the  stream  and  hid  his  horse  well  back  in  the  woods 
near  the  mine.  To  this  he  now  went  boldly,  and  in 
quired  for  Tim  Atkins,  Bute's  assumed  name.  He  was 
directed  to  the  shanty  with  which  he  had  already  made 
himself  so  familiar. 

4 


50  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Bute  was  found  alone,  and  was  much  surprised  at  sight  of 
his  old  gambling  acquaintance  of  better  days,  for  his  better 
days  were  those  of  robbery  before  he  had  added  the  deeper 
stain  of  murder.  Brandt  soon  allayed  active  fears  and  sus 
picions  by  giving  the  impression  that  in  his  descensus  he  had 
reached  the  stage  of  robbery  and  had  got  on  the  scent  of 
some  rich  booty  in  the  mountains. 

"  But  how  did  you  know  I  was  here?  "  demanded  Bute. 

"  I  didn't  know  it,"  replied  Brandt,  adopting  his  old  ver 
nacular  ;  "  but  I  guessed  as  much,  for  I  knew  there  was 
more  'n  one  shady  feller  in  this  gang,  and  I  took  my  chances 
on  findin'  you,  for  says  I  to  myself,  if  I  can  find  Bute,  I  've 
found  the  right  man  to  help  me  crack  a  ranch  when  there  's 
some  risk  and  big  plunder." 

He  then  disclosed  the  fact  of  hearing  that  the  keeper  of 
the  tavern  had  accumulated  a  good  sum  of  hard  money,  and 
was  looking  out  for  a  chance  to  send  it  to  a  bank.  "We  can 
save  him  the  trouble,  yer  know,"  he  concluded  facetiously. 

"  Well,"  said  Bute,  musingly,  "  I  'm  gittin'  tired  of  this 
dog's  life,  and  I  reckon  I  '11  go  snacks  with  yer  and  then  put 
out  fer  parts  unknown.  I  was  paid  t'other  day,  and  there 
ain't  much  owin'  me  here.  I  guess  it  '11  be  safer  fer  me  ter 
keep  movin'  on,  too." 

"You  may  well  say  that,  Bute.  I  heard  below  that 
there  was  goin'  to  be  some  investigations  inter  this  gang, 
and  that  there  was  more  'n  one  feller  here  whose  pictur  was 
on  exhibition." 

"That  so?"  said   Bute,  hastily.      "Well,   I'll   go  with 
yer  ter-night,  fer  it 's  time  I  was  movin'.     I  kin  tell  yer  one 
thing,  though,  —  there  '11  be  no  investigations  here  unless  a 
fair-sized  regiment  makes  it.     Every  man  keeps  his  shooter  a 
handy." 

"  Hanged  if  we  care  how  the  thing  turns  out.     You  and 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  5  I 

me  '11  be  far  enough  away  from  the  shindy.  Now  make 
your  arrangements  prompt ;  for  we  must  be  on  the  road  by 
nine  o'clock,  so  we  can  get  through  early  in  the  night  and  have 
a  good  start  with  the  swag.  My  plan  is  to  ambush  the 
whiskey  shop,  go  and  demand  drinks  soon  after  everybody 
is  gone,  and  then  proceed  to  business." 

"  Can't  we  let  my  mate,  Apache  Jack,  in  with  us  ?  I  '11 
stand  for  him." 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  know  anything  about  Apache  Jack ;  and 
I  can  trust  you.  We  can  manage  better  alone,  and  I  'd 
rather  have  one-half  than  one-third." 

"Trust  me,  kin  you?  you  —  fool,"  thought  Bute.  "So 
ye  thinks  I  '11  sit  down  and  divide  the  plunder  socially  with 
you  when  I  kin  give  yer  a  quiet  dig  in  the  ribs  and  take  it 
all.  One  more  man  now  won't  matter.  I  'm  a-goin'  ter 
try  fer  enough  ter-night  ter  take  me  well  out  of  these 
parts." 

Bute's  face  was  sinister  enough  to  suggest  any  phase  of 
evil,  and  Brandt  well  knew  that  he  was  capable  of  what  he 
meditated.  It  was  now  the  policy  of  both  parties,  however, 
to  be  very  friendly,  and  Bute  was  still  further  mellowed  by 
a  draught  of  liquor  from  Brandt's  flask. 

They  had  several  games  of  cards  in  which  it  was  man 
aged  that  Bute's  winnings  should  be  the  larger ;  and  at  nine 
in  the  evening  they  started  on  what  was  to  Bute  another  ex 
pedition  of  robbery  and  murder.  Mr.  Alford,  who  was  on 
the  alert,  saw  them  depart  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  The 
night  was  cloudy;  but  the  moon  gave  plenty  of  light  for 
travelling.  Brandt  soon  secured  his  horse,  and  then  ap 
peared  to  give  full  rein  to  his  careless,  reckless  spirit. 

As  they  approached  the  stream,  he  remarked,  "  I  say 
Bute,  it 's  too  bad  we  can't  use  the  pasteboards  while  on 
the  jog ;  but  I  can  win  a  five  out  of  you  by  an  old  game  of 


52  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

ours.  I  bet  you  I  can  empty  my  revolver  quicker  'n  you 
can." 

"We'd  better  save  our  amernition  and  make  no  noise." 

"  Oh,  shaw  !  I  always  have  better  luck  when  I  'm  free 
and  careless  like.  It 's  your  sneaking  fellers  that  always 
get  caught.  Besides,  who  '11  notice?  This  little  game  is 
common  enough  all  through  the  mountains,  and  everybody 
knows  that  there  's  no  mischief  in  such  kind  of  firing.  I 
want  to  win  back  some  of  my  money." 

"  Well  then,  take  you  up ;  go  ahead." 

Instantly  from  Brandt's  pistol  there  were  six  reports  fol 
lowing  one  another  so  quickly  that  they  could  scarcely  be 
distinguished. 

"  Now  beat  that  if  you  can  ! "  cried  Brandt,  who  had  a 
second  and  concealed  revolver  ready  for  an  emergency. 

"  The  fool !  "  thought  Bute,  "  to  put  himself  at  the  marcy  of 
any  man.  I  can  pluck  him  to-night  like  a  winged  pa'tridge  ; '' 
but  he  too  fired  almost  as  quickly  as  his  companion. 

"  You  only  used  five  ca'tridges  in  that  little  game,  my 
friend,"  said  Brandt. 

"  Nonsense  !     I  fired  so  quick  you  could  n't  count  'em." 

"  Now  see  here,  Bute,"  resumed  Brandt,  in  an  aggrieved 
tone,  "  you  Ve  got  to  play  fair  with  me.  I  've  cut  my  eye- 
teeth  since  you  used  to  fleece  me,  and  I  '11  swear  you  fired 
only  five  shots.  Let 's  load  and  try  again." 

"  What 's  the  use  of  sich nonsense  ?  You  '11  swar 

that  you  fired  the  quickest ;  and  of  course  I  '11  swar  the 
same,  and  there 's  nobody  here  ter  jedge.  What 's  more, 
Ralph  Brandt,  I  wants  you  and  every  man  ter  know  that  I 
always  keeps  a  shot  in  reserve,  and  that  I  never  misses.  So 
let 's  load  and  jog  on,  and  stop  foolin'." 

"That  scheme  has  failed,"  thought  Brandt,  as  he  replaced 
the  shells  with  cartridges. 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  53 

His  purpose  was  to  find  a  moment  when  his  companion 
was  completely  in  his  power,  and  it  came  sooner  than  he 
expected.  When  they  drew  near  the  brook,  it  was  evident 
that  Bute's  pony  was  thirsty,  for  it  suddenly  darted  for 
ward  and  thrust  its  nose  into  the  water.  Therefore,  for  an 
instant,  Bute  was  in  advance  with  his  back  toward  the 
detective.  Covering  the  fellow  with  his  revolver,  Brandt 
shouted,  — 

"  Bute,  throw  up  your  hands ;  surrender,  or  you  are  a 
dead  man  !  " 

Instantly  the  truth  flashed  through  the  outlaw's  mind. 
Instead  of  complying,  he  threw  himself  forward  over  the 
pony's  neck  and  urged  the  animal  forward.  Brandt  fired, 
and  Bute  fell  with  a  splash  into  the  water.  At  that  mo 
ment  three  miners,  returning  from  the  tavern,  came  shout 
ing  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream.  The  frightened  pony, 
relieved  of  its  burden,  galloped  homeward.  Brandt  also 
withdrew  rapidly  toward  the  mine  for  some  distance,  and 
then  rode  into  the  woods.  Having  tied  his  horse  well  back 
from  the  highway,  he  reconnoitred  the  party  that  had  so  in 
opportunely  interfered  with  his  plans.  He  discovered  that 
they  were  carrying  Bute,  who,  from  his  groans  and  oaths,  was 
evidently  not  dead,  though  he  might  be  mortally  wounded. 
His  rescuers  were  breathing  out  curses  and  threats  of  ven 
geance  against  Brandt,  now  known  to  be  an  officer  of  the 
law. 

"  The  job  has  become  a  little  complicated  now,"  muttered 
Brandt,  after  they  had  passed  ;  "  and  I  must  throw  them  off 
the  scent.  There  will  be  a  dozen  out  after  me  soon." 

He  remounted  his  horse,  stole  silently  down  the  road, 
crossed  the  stream,  and  then  galloped  to  the  tavern,  and 
calling  out  the  keeper,  asked  if  there  was  any  shorter  road 
out  of  the  mountains  than  the  one  leading  to  the  west.  Be- 


54  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

ing  answered  in  the  negative,  he  rode  hastily  away.  On 
reaching  the  place  where  he  had  struck  this  road  the  previ 
ous  day,  he  entered  the  woods,  followed  the  rugged  trail 
that  he  had  marked  by  bits  of  paper,  and  slowly  approached 
the  mine  road  again  near  the  point  where  the  stream  crossed 
it.  He  then  reconnoitred  and  learned  that  there  was  evi 
dently  a  large  party  exploring  the  woods  between  the  stream 
and  the  mine. 

At  last  they  all  gathered  at  the  ford  for  consultation,  and 
Brandt  heard  one  say,  — 

"  We  're  wastin'  time,  beatin'  round  here.  He  'd  naterly 
put  fer  the  lowlands  as  soon  as  he  found  he  was  balked  in 
takin'  his  man.  I  move  we  call  on  Whiskey  Bob,  and  see 
if  a  man  's  rode  that  way  ter-night." 

A  call  on  Whiskey  Bob  was  apparently  always  acceptable  ; 
and  the  party  soon  disappeared  down  the  road,  —  some  on 
horses  and  more  on  foot.  Brandt  then  quietly  crossed  the 
road  and  gained  his  retreat  on  the  mountain-side. 

"  I  must  camp  here  now  till  the  fellow  dies,  and  I  can 
prove  it,  or  until  I  can  get  another  chance,"  was  his  conclu 
sion  as  he  rubbed  down  and  fed  his  horse. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

TAKEN    ALIVE. 

A  FTER  taking  some  refreshment  himself,  Brandt  decided 
to  go  to  the   thicket  opposite  the   superintendent's 
house  for  a  little  observation.     He  soon  reached  this  out 
look,  and  saw  that  something  unusual  was  occurring  in  the 
cottage.     At  last  the  door  opened,  and  Bute  was  assisted  to 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  5  5 

his  shanty  by  two  men.  They  had  scarcely  disappeared 
before  Brandt  darted  across  the  road  and  knocked  for 
admittance. 

"  Great  Scott !  you  here?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Alford. 

"  Yes,  and  here  I  'm  going  to  stay  till  I  take  my  man," 
replied  the  detective,  with  a  laugh.  "  Don't  be  alarmed.  I 
shall  not  remain  in  your  house,  but  in  the  neighborhood." 

"You  are  trifling  with  your  life,  and,  I  may  add,  with 
mine." 

"  Not  at  all.  Come  up  to  your  bedroom.  First  draw 
the  curtains  close,  and  we  '11  compare  notes.  I  won't  stay 
but  a  few  moments." 

Mr.  Alford  felt  that  it  was  best  to  comply,  for  some  one 
might  come  and  find  them  talking  in  the  hall.  When  Brandt 
entered  the  apartment,  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and 
laughed  in  his  low  careless  style  as  he  said,  "Well,  I  almost 
bagged  my  game  to-night,  and  would  have  done  so  had  not 
three  of  your  men,  returning  from  the  tavern,  interfered." 

"  There  's  a  party  out  looking  for  you  now." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  I  Ve  put  them  on  the  wrong  trail.  What 
I  want  to  learn  is,  will  Bute  live?  " 

"  Yes  ;  your  shot  made  a  long  flesh-wound  just  above  his 
shoulders.  A  little  closer,  and  it  would  have  cut  his  verte 
brae  and  finished  him.  He  has  lost  a  good  deal  of  blood, 
and  could  not  be  moved  for  some  days  except  at  some 
risk." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  he  may  have  to  incur  the  risk.  I  only  wish  to  be 
certain  that  he  will  not  take  it  on  his  own  act  at  once. 
You  '11  soon  miss  him  in  any  event." 

"  The  sooner  the  better.  I  wish  your  aim  had  been 
surer." 


56  TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  That  was  n't  my  good  luck.  Next  time  I  '11  have  to 
shoot  closer  or  else  take  him  alive." 

"  But  you  can't  stay  in  this  region.  They  will  all  be  on 
the  alert  now." 

"  Oh,  no.  The  impression  will  be  general  to-morrow  that 
I  've  made  for  the  lowlands  as  fast  as  my  horse  could  carry 
me.  Don't  you  worry.  Till  I  move  again,  I  'm  safe  enough. 
All  I  ask  of  you  now  is  to  keep  Bute  in  his  own  shanty,  and 
not  to  let  him  have  more  than  one  man  to  take  care  of  him 
if  possible.  Good-night.  You  may  not  see  me  again,  and 
then  again  you  may." 

"Well,  now  that  you  are  here,"  said  the  superintendent, 
who  was  naturally  brave  enough,  "  spend  an  hour  or  two,  or 
else  stay  till  just  before  daylight.  I  confess  I  am  becoming 
intensely  interested  in  your  adventure,  and  would  take  a 
hand  in  it  if  I  could ;  but  you  know  well  enough  that  if  I 
did,  and  it  became  known,  I  would  have  to  find  business 
elsewhere  very  suddenly,  —  that  is,  if  given  the  chance." 

"  I  only  wish  your  passive  co-operation.  I  should  be 
glad,  however,  if  you  would  let  me  take  a  horse,  if  I  must." 

"  Certainly,  as  long  as  you  leave  my  black  mare." 

Brandt  related  what  had  occurred,  giving  a  comical 
aspect  to  everything,  and  then  after  reconnoitring  the  road 
from  a  darkened  window,  regained  his  cover  in  safety.  He 
declined  to  speak  of  his  future  plans  or  to  give  any  clew  to 
his  hiding-place,  to  which  he  now  returned. 

During  the  few  remaining  hours  of  darkness  and  most  of 
the  next  day,  he  slept  and  lounged  about  his  fire.  The  next 
night  was  too  bright  and  clear  for  anything  beyond  a  recon- 
noissance,  and  he  saw  evidences  of  an  alertness  which  made 
him  very  cautious.  He  did  not  seek  another  interview  with 
Mr.  Alford,  for  now  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  it. 

The  next  day  proved  cloudy,  and  with  night  began  a  vio- 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  57 

lent  storm  of  wind  and  rain.  Brandt  cowered  over  his  fire 
till  nine  o'clock,  and  then  taking  a  slight  draught  from  his 
flask,  chuckled,  "  This  is  glorious  weather  for  my  work. 
Here  's  to  Clara's  luck  this  time  !  " 

In  little  over  an  hour  he  started  for  the  mine,  near  which 
he  concealed  his  horse.  Stealing  about  in  the  deep  shadows, 
he  soon  satisfied  himself  that  no  one  was  on  the  watch,  and 
then  approaching  the  rear  of  Bute's  shanty  found  to  his 
joy  that  the  pony  was  in  the  shed.  A  chink  in  the  board 
siding  enabled  him  to  look  into  the  room  which  contained 
his  prey ;  he  started  as  he  saw  Apache  Jack,  instantly  recog 
nizing  in  him  another  criminal  for  whom  a  large  reward  was 
offered. 

"  Better  luck  than  I  dreamed  of,"  he  thought.  "  I  shall 
take  them  both ;  but  I  now  shall  have  to  borrow  a  horse  of 
Alford;  "  and  he  glided  away,  secured  an  animal  from  the 
stable,  and  tied  it  near  his  own.  In  a  short  time  he  was 
back  at  his  post  of  observation.  It  had  now  become  evi 
dent  that  no  one  even  imagined  that  there  was  danger 
while  such  a  storm  was  raging.  The  howling  wind  would 
drown  all  ordinary  noises  ;  and  Brandt  determined  that  the 
two  men  in  the  shanty  should  be  on  their  way  to  jail  that 
night.  When  he  again  put  his  eye  to  the  chink  in  the  wall, 
Bute  was  saying,  — 

"  Well,  no  one  will  start  fer  the  mountings  while  this  storm 
lasts,  but,  wound  or  no  wound,  I  must  get  out  of  this  as  soon 
as  it  "s  over.  There  's  no  safety  fer  me  here  now." 

"  Ef  they  comes  fer  you,  like  enough  they  '11  take  me," 
replied  Apache  Jack,  who,  now  that  he  was  alone  with  his 
confederate,  could  speak  his  style  of  English  fast  enough. 
His  character  of  half-breed  was  a  disguise  which  his  dark 
complexion  had  suggested.  "Ter-morrer  night,  ef  it 's  clar, 
we  '11  put  out  fer  the  easterd.  I  know  of  a  shanty  in  the 


58  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

woods  not  so  very  fur  from  here  in  which  we  kin  put  up  till 
yer's  able  ter  travel  furder.  Come,  now,  take  a  swig  of 
whiskey  with  me  and  then  we  '11  sleep ;  there  's  no  need  of 
our  watchin'  any  longer  on  a  night  like  this.  I  ;11  jest  step 
out  an'  see  ef  the  pony's  safe  ;  sich  a  storm  's  'nuff  ter  scare 
him  off  ter  the  woods." 

"  Well,  jest  lay  my  shooter  on  the  cha'r  here  aside  me 
'fore  you  go.  I  feel  safer  with  the  little  bull-dog  in  reach." 

This  the  man  did,  then  putting  his  own  revolver  on  the 
table,  that  it  might  not  get  wet,  began  to  unbar  the  door. 
Swift  as  a  shadow  Brandt  glided  out  of  the  shed  and  around 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  shanty. 

An  instant  later  Bute  was  paralyzed  by  seeing  his  enemy 
enter  the  open  door.  Before  the  outlaw  could  realize  that 
Brandt  was  not  a  feverish  vision  induced  by  his  wound,  the 
detective  had  captured  both  revolvers,  and  was  standing 
behind  the  door  awaiting  Apache  Jack's  return. 

"  Hist !  "  whispered  Brandt,  "  not  a  sound,  or  you  will 
both  be  dead  in  two  minutes." 

Bute's  nerves  were  so  shattered  that  he  could  scarcely 
have  spoken,  even  if  he  had  been  reckless  enough  to  do  so. 
He  felt  himself  doomed ;  and  when  brutal  natures  like  his 
succumb,  they  usually  break  utterly.  Therefore  he  could  do 
no  more  than  shiver  with  unspeakable  dread  as  if  he  had 
an  ague. 

Soon  Apache  Jack  came  rushing  in  out  of  the  storm,  to 
be  instantly  confronted  by  Brandt's  revolver.  The  fellow 
glanced  at  the  table,  and  seeing  his  own  weapon  was  gone, 
instinctively  half  drew  a  long  knife. 

"  Put  that  knife  on  the  table  !  "  ordered  Brandt,  sternly. 
"  Do  you  think  I  'd  allow  any  such  foolishness?  " 

The  man  now  realized  his  powerlessness,  and  obeyed  ;  and 
Brandt  secured  this  weapon  also. 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  59 

"See  here,  Apache  Jack,  or  whatever  your  name  is,  don't 
you  run  your  head  into  a  noose.  You  know  I  'm  empowered 
to  arrest  Bute,  and  you  don't  know  anything  about  the  force 
I  have  at  hand.  All  you  've  got  to  do  is  to  obey  me,  an 
officer  of  the  law,  like  a  good  citizen.  If  you  don't,  I  '11 
shoot  you ;  and  that 's  all  there  is  about  it.  Will  you  obey 
orders?" 

"  I  no  understan'." 

"  Stop  lying  !  You  understand  English  as  well  as  I  do, 
and  I  '11  suspect  you  if  you  try  that  on  again.  Come,  now  ! 
I  've  no  time  to  lose.  It 's  death  or  obedience  !  " 

"  You  can't  blame  a  feller  fer  standin'  by  his  mate,"  was 
the  sullen  yet  deprecatory  reply. 

"  I  can  blame  any  man  and  arrest  or  shoot  him  too,  who 
obstructs  the  law.  You  must  obey  me  for  the  next  half- hour 
to  prove  that  you  are  not  Bute's  accomplice." 

"  He  's  only  my  mate,  and  our  rule  is  ter  stand  by  each 
other ;  but,  as  you  say,  I  can't  help  myself,  and  there  's  no 
use  of  my  goin'  ter  jail." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  added  Brandt,  appealing  to  the 
fellow's  selfish  hope  of  escaping  further  trouble  if  Bute  was 
taken.  "  Now  get  my  prisoner  out  of  bed  and  dress  him  as 
soon  as  possible." 

"  But  he  ain't  able  ter  be  moved.  The  superintendent 
said  he  was  n't." 

"  That 's  my  business,  not  yours.     Do  as  I  bid  you." 

"Why  don't  yer  yell  fer  help?"  said  Bute,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"  Because  he  knows  I  'd  shoot  him  if  he  did,"  remarked 
Brandt,  coolly. 

"  Come,  old  man,"  said  Jack,  "  luck 's  agin  yer.  Ef 
there  's  any  hollerin'  ter  be  done,  yer's  as  able  ter  do  that  as 
I  be." 


6O  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Quick,  quick  !  jerk  him  out  of  bed  and  get  him  into  his 
clothes.  I  won't  permit  one  false  move." 

Jack  now  believed  that  his  only  means  of  safety  was  to  be 
as  expeditious  as  possible,  and  that  if  Bute  was  taken  safely 
he  would  be  left  unmolested.  People  of  their  class  rarely 
keep  faith  with  one  another  when  it  is  wholly  against  their 
interests  to  do  so.  Therefore,  in  spite  of  the  wounded 
man's  groans,  he  was  quickly  dressed  and  his  hands  tied 
behind  him.  As  he  opened  his  mouth  to  give  expression  to 
his  protests,  he  found  himself  suddenly  gagged  by  Brandt, 
who  stood  behind  him.  Then  a  strap  was  buckled  about 
his  feet,  and  he  lay  on  the  floor  helpless  and  incapable  of 
making  a  sound. 

"  Now,  Jack,"  said  Brandt,  "  go  before  me  and  bridle 
and  saddle  the  pony;  then  bring  him  to  the  door." 

Jack  obeyed. 

"  Now  put  Bute  upon  him.  I'll  hold  his  head ;  but 
remember  I  'm  covering  you  with  a  dead  bead  all  the 
time." 

"  No  need  of  that.     I  'm  civil  enough  now." 

"  Well,  you  know  we  're  sort  of  strangers  and  it 's  no  more 
than  prudent  for  me  to  be  on  the  safe  side  till  we  part  com 
pany.  That 's  right,  strap  his  feet  underneath.  Now  lead 
the  pony  in  such  directions  as  I  say.  Don't  try  to  make  off 
till  I  'm  through  with  you,  or  you  '11  be  shot  instantly.  I 
shall  keep  within  a  yard  of  you  all  the  time." 

They  were  not  long  in  reaching  the  horse  that  Brandt  had 
borrowed,  and  Jack  said,  "  I  s'pose  I  kin  go  now." 

"  First  untie  Bute's  hands  so  he  can  guide  the  pony." 

As  the  fellow  attempted  to  do  this,  and  his  two  hands 
were  close  together,  Brandt  slipped  a  pair  of  light  steel  hand 
cuffs  over  his  wrists,  and  the  man  was  in  his  power.  Almost 
before  the  new  prisoner  could  recover  from  his  surprise,  he 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  6 1 

was  lifted  on  the  borrowed  horse,  and  his  legs  also  tied 
underneath. 

"  This  ain't  fa'r.  You  promised  ter  let  me  go  when  you 
got  Bute  off." 

"  I  have  n't  got  him  off  yet.  Of  course  I  can't  let  you  go 
right  back  and  bring  a  dozen  men  after  us.  You  must  be 
reasonable." 

The  fellow  yelled  for  help  ;  but  the  wind  swept  the  sound 
away. 

"  If  you  do  that  again,  I  '11  gag  you  too,"  said  Brandt.  "  I 
tell  you  both  once  more,  and  I  won't  repeat  the  caution, 
that  your  lives  depend  on  obedience."  Then  he  mounted, 
and  added,  "  Bute,  I  'm  going  to  untie  your  hands,  and  you 
must  ride  on  ahead  of  me.  I  '11  lead  Jack's  horse." 

In  a  moment  he  had  his  prisoners  in  the  road,  and  was 
leaving  the  mine  at  a  sharp  pace.  Bute  was  so  cowed  and 
dazed  with  terror  that  he  obeyed  mechanically.  The  stream 
was  no  longer  a  shallow  brook,  but  a  raging  torrent  which 
almost  swept  them  away  as  Brandt  urged  them  relentlessly 
through  it.  The  tavern  was  dark  and  silent  as  they  passed 
quickly  by  it.  Then  Brandt  took  the  gag  from  Bute's  mouth, 
and  he  groaned,  cursed,  and  pleaded  by  turns.  Hour  after 
hour  he  urged  them  forward,  until  at  last  Bute  gave  out 
and  fell  forward  on  the  pony's  neck.  Brandt  dismounted 
and  gave  the  exhausted  man  a  draught  from  his  flask. 

"  Oh,  shoot  me  and  have  done  with  it !  "  groaned  Bute  ; 
"  I  'd  rather  be  shot  than  hanged  anyhow." 

"Couldn't  think  of  it,"  replied  the  detective,  cheerily. 
"  My  rule  is  to  take  prisoners  alive,  so  that  they  can  have  a 
fair  trial  and  be  sure  that  they  get  justice.  I  'd  take  you 
the  rest  of  the  way  in  a  bed  if  I  could,  but  if  you  can't  sit 
up,  I  '11  have  to  tie  you  on.  We  '11  reach  a  friend  of  mine 
by  daylight,  and  then  you  can  ride  in  a  wagon,  so  brace  up." 


62  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

This  the  outlaw  did  for  a  time,  and  then  he  gave  out 
utterly  and  was  tied  more  securely  to  the  pony.  Out  of 
compassion,  Brandt  thereafter  travelled  more  slowly;  and 
when  the  sun  was  an  hour  high,  he  led  his  forlorn  captives 
to  the  house  of  a  man  whom  he  knew  could  be  depended 
upon  for  assistance.  After  a  rest  sufficient  to  give  Bute 
time  to  recover  somewhat,  the  remainder  of  the  journey  was 
made  without  any  incident  worth  mentioning,  and  the  pris 
oners  were  securely  lodged  in  jail  on  the  evening  of  the 
24th  of  December. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT    BRANDT   SAW   CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

~D  RANDT'S  words  and  effort  had  had  their  natural  effect 
^~^  on  the  mind  of  Clara  Heyward.  They  proved  an  in 
creasing  diversion  of  her  thoughts,  and  slowly  dispelled  the 
morbid,  leaden  grief  under  which  she  had  been  sinking. 
Her  new  anxiety  in  regard  to  her  lover's  fortune  and  possi 
ble  fate  was  a  healthful  counter-irritant.  Half  consciously 
she  yielded  to  the  influence  of  his  strong  hopeful  spirit,  and 
almost  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  she  too  began  to  hope. 
Chief  of  all,  his  manly  tenderness  and  unbargaining  love 
stole  into  her  heart  like  a  subtle  balm  ;  and  responsive  love, 
the  most  potent  of  remedies,  was  renewing  her  life.  She 
found  herself  counting  the  days  and  then  the  hours  that 
must  intervene  before  the  25th.  On  Christmas  Eve  her 
woman's  nature  triumphed,  and  she  instinctively  added  such 
little  graces  to  her  toilet  as  her  sombre  costume  permitted. 
She  also  arranged  her  beautiful  hair  in  the  style  which  she 
knew  he  admired.  He  might  come ;  and  she  determined 


TAKEN  ALIVE.  63 

that  his  first  glance  should  reveal  that  he  was  not  serving 

one  who  was  coldly  apathetic  to  his  brave  endeavor  and 

loyalty. 

Indeed,  even  she  herself  wondered  at  the  changes  that 

had  taken  place  during  the  brief  time  which  had  elapsed 

since  their  parting.     There  was  a  new  light  in  her  eyes  ; 

and  a  delicate  bloom  tinged  her  cheeks. 

"  Oh,"  she  murmured,  "  it 's  all  so  different  now  that  I 

feel  that  I  can  live  for  him  and  make  him  happy." 

She  was  sure  that  she  could  welcome  him  in  a  way  that 
would  assure  him  of  the  fulfilment  of  all  his  hopes ;  but 
when  he  did  come  with  his  eager,  questioning  eyes,  she 
suddenly  found  herself  under  a  strange  restraint,  tongue- 
tied  and  embarrassed.  She  longed  to  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  tell  him  all,  —  the  new  life,  the  new  hope 
which  his  look  of  deep  affection  had  kindled ;  and  in  ef 
fort  for  self-control,  she  seemed  to  him  almost  cold.  He 
therefore  became  perplexed  and  uncertain  of  his  ground, 
and  took  refuge  in  the  details  of  his  expedition,  mean 
while  mentally  assuring  himself  that  he  must  keep  his  word 
and  put  no  constraint  on  the  girl  contrary  to  the  dictates 
of  her  heart. 

As  his  mind  grew  clearer,  his  keen  observation  began  to 
reveal  hopeful  indications.  She  was  listening  intently  with 
approval,  and  something  more  in  her  expression,  he  dared 
to  fancy.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed,  "  How  changed  you 
are  for  the  better,  Clara  !  You  are  lovelier  to-night  than 
ever  you  were.  What  is  it  in  your  face  that  is  so  sweet 
and  bewildering  ?  You  were  a  pretty  girl  before ;  now 
you  are  a  beautiful  woman." 

The  color  came  swiftly  at  his  words,  and  she  faltered  as 
she  averted  her  eyes,  "  Please  go  on  with  your  story,  Ralph. 
You  have  scarcely  begun  yet.  I  fear  you  were  in  danger." 


64  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

He  came  and  stood  beside  her.  "  Clara,"  he  pleaded, 
"look  at  me." 

Hesitatingly  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

" Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  hope  I  see?  " 

The  faintest  suggestion  of  a  smile  hovered  about  her 
trembling  lips. 

"  I  hope  I  see  what  you  surely  see  in  mine.  Come, 
Clara,  you  shall  choose  before  you  hear  my  story.  Am  I  to 
be  your  husband  or  friend  ?  for  I  've  vowed  that  you  shall 
not  be  without  a  loyal  protector." 

"Ralph,  Ralph,"  she  cried,  springing  up  and  hiding  her 
face  on  his  shoulder,  "  I  have  no  choice  at  all.  You  know 
how  I  loved  papa ;  but  I  've  learned  that  there  's  another 
and  different  kind  of  love.  I  did  n't  half  understand  you 
when  you  first  spoke ;  now  I  do.  You  will  always  see  in 
my  eyes  what  you  've  seen  to-night." 


FOUND   YET   LOST. 


CHAPTER   I. 

LOVE   IN  THE   WILDERNESS. 

T  T  OPELESS  indeed  must  that  region  be  which  May  can- 
•*•  not  clothe  with  some  degree  of  beauty  and  embroider 
with  flowers.  On  the  5th  day  of  the  month  the  early 
dawn  revealed  much  that  would  charm  the  eyes  of  all  true 
lovers  of  nature  even  in  that  section  of  Virginia  whose 
characteristics  so  grimly  correspond  with  its  name,  —  The 
Wilderness.  The  low  pines  and  cedars,  which  abound 
everywhere,  had  taken  a  fresh  green ;  the  deciduous  trees, 
the  tangled  thickets,  impenetrable  in  many  places  by  horse 
or  man,  were  putting  forth  a  new,  tender  foliage,  tinted  with 
a  delicate  semblance  of  autumn  hues.  Flowers  bloomed 
everywhere,  humbly  in  the  grass  close  to  the  soil  as  well  as 
on  the  flaunting  sprays  of  shrubbery  and  vines,  filling  the  air 
with  fragrance  as  the  light  touched  and  expanded  the  petals. 
Wood-thrushes  and  other  birds  sang  as  melodiously  and  con 
tentedly  as  if  they  had  selected  some  breezy  upland  forest 
for  their  nesting- place  instead  of  a  region  which  has  become 
a  synonym  for  gloom,  horror,  and  death. 

Lonely  and  uninhabited  in  its  normal  condition,  this  for 
bidding  wilderness  had  become  peopled  with  thousands  of 
men.  The  Army  of  the  Potomac  was  penetrating  and 

5 


66  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

seeking  to  pass  through  it.  Vigilant  General  Lee  had  ob 
served  the  movement,  and  with  characteristic  boldness  and 
skill  ordered  his  troops  from  their  strong  intrenchments  on 
Mine  Run  toward  the  Union  flank.  On  this  memorable 
morning  the  van  of  his  columns  wakened  from  their  brief 
repose  but  a  short  distance  from  the  Federal  bivouac. 
Both  parties  were  unconscious  of  their  nearness,  for  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  clearings  the  dense  growth  restricted 
vision  to  a  narrow  range.  The  Union  forces  were  directed 
in  their  movements  by  the  compass,  as  if  they  were  sailors 
on  a  fog-enshrouded  sea ;  but  they  well  knew  that  they  were 
seeking  their  old  antagonist,  the  Army  of  Northern  Vir 
ginia,  and  that  the  stubborn  tug-of-war  might  begin  at  any 
moment. 

When  Captain  Nichol  shook  off  the  lethargy  of  a  brief 
troubled  sleep,  he  found  that  the  light  did  not  banish  his 
gloomy  impressions.  Those  immediately  around  him  were 
still  slumbering,  wrapped  in  their  blankets.  Few  sounds 
other  than  the  voices  of  the  awakening  birds  broke  the 
silence.  After  a  little  thought  he  drew  his  note-book  from 
his  pocket  and  wrote  as  follows :  — 

MY  DARLING  HELEN,  —  I  obey  an  impulse  to  write  to  you 
this  morning.  It  is  scarcely  light  enough  to  see  as  yet;  but 
very  soon  we  shall  be  on  the  move  again  to  meet,  —  we  know  not 
what,  certainly  heavy,  desperate  fighting.  I  do  not  know  why 
I  am  so  sad.  I  have  faced  the  prospect  of  battles  many  times 
before,  and  have  passed  through  them  unharmed,  but  now  I  am 
depressed  by  an  unusual  foreboding.  Naturally  my  thoughts 
turn  to  you.  There  was  no  formal  engagement  between  us 
when  I  said  those  words  (so  hard  to  speak)  of  farewell,  nor 
have  I  sought  to  bind  you  since.  Every  month  has  made  more 
clear  the  uncertainty  of  life  in  my  calling;  and  I  felt  that  I  had 
no  right  to  lay  upon  you  any  restraint  other  than  that  of  your 
own  feelings.  If  the  worst  happened,  you  would  be  free  as  far 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  67 

as  I  was  concerned,  and  few  would  know  that  we  had  told  each 
other  of  our  love.  I  wish  to  tell  you  of  mine  once  more,  —  not 
for  the  last  time,  I  hope,  but  I  don't  know.  I  do  love  you  with 
my  whole  heart  and  soul ;  and  if  I  am  to  die  in  this  horrible 
wilderness,  where  so  many  of  my  comrades  died  a  year  ago,  my 
last  thoughts  will  be  of  you  and  of  the  love  of  God,  which 
your  love  has  made  more  real  to  me.  I  love  you  too  well  to 
wish  my  death,  should  it  occur,  to  spoil  your  young  life.  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  forget  me,  —  that  would  be  worse  than  death ; 
but  I  ask  you  to  try  to  be  happy  and  to  make  others  happy  as 
the  years  pass  on.  This  bloody  war  will  come  to  an  end,  will 
become  a  memory,  and  those  who  perish  hope  to  be  remem 
bered;  but  I  do  not  wish  my  memory  to  hang  like  a  cloud  over 
the  happy  days  of  peace.  I  close,  my  darling,  in  hope,  not 
fear,  —  hope  for  you,  hope  for  me,  whatever  may  happen  to-day 
or  on  coming  days  of  strife.  It  only  remains  for  me  to  do  my 
duty.  I  trust  that  you  will  also  do  yours,  which  may  be  even 
harder.  Do  not  give  way  to  despairing  grief  if  I  cannot  come 
back  to  you  in  this  world.  Let  your  faith  in  God  and  hope  of 
a  future  life  inspire  and  strengthen  you  in  your  battles,  which 
may  require  more  courage  and  unselfishness  than  mine. 
Yours,  either  in  life  or  death, 

ALBERT  NICHOL. 

He  made  another  copy  of  this  letter,  put  both  in  envel 
opes,  and  addressed  them,  then  sought  two  men  of  his 
company  who  came  from  his  native  village.  They  were 
awake  now  and  boiling  their  coffee.  The  officer  and  the 
privates  had  grown  up  as  boys  together  with  little  difference 
of  social  standing  in  the  democratic  town.  When  off  duty, 
there  still  existed  much  of  the  old  familiarity  and  friendly 
converse,  but  when  Captain  Nichol  gave  an  order,  his  towns 
men  immediately  became  conscious  that  they  were  sepa 
rated  from  him  by  the  iron  wall  of  military  discipline. 
This  characteristic  did  not  alienate  his  old  associates.  One 
of  the  men  hit  the  truth  fairly  in  saying,  "  When  Cap  speaks 


68  TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

as  Cap,  he  's  as  hard  and  sharp  as  a  bayonet-point ;  but 
when  a  feller  is  sick  and  worn  out  'tween  times  you  'd 
think  your  granny  was  coddlin'  yer." 

It  was  as  friend  and  old  neighbor  that  Nichol  approached 
Sam  and  Jim  Wetherby,  two  stalwart  brothers  who  had  en 
listed  in  his  company.  "  Boys,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  favor 
to  ask  of  you.  The  Lord  only  knows  how  the  day  will  end 
for  any  of  us.  We  will  take  our  chances  and  do  our  duty, 
as  usual.  I  hope  we  may  all  boil  coffee  again  to-night ;  but 
who  knows?  Here  are  two  letters.  If  I  should  fall,  and 
either  or  both  of  you  come  out  all  right,  as  I  trust  you  will, 
please  forward  them.  If  I  am  with  you  again  to-night, 
return  them  to  me." 

"  Come,  Captain,"  said  Jim,  heartily,  "  the  bullet  is  n't 
moulded  that  can  harm  you.  You  '11  lead  us  into  Rich 
mond  yet." 

"  It  will  not  be  from  lack  of  good-will  if  I  don't.  I  like 
your  spirit ;  and  I  believe  the  army  will  get  there  this  time 
whether  I  'm  with  it  or  not.  Do  as  I  ask.  There  is  no 
harm  in  providing  against  what  may  happen.  Make  your 
breakfast  quickly,  for  orders  may  come  at  any  moment ;  " 
and  he  strode  away  to  look  after  the  general  readiness  of 
his  men. 

The  two  brothers  compared  the  address  on  the  letters 
and  laughed  a  little  grimly.  "  Cap  is  a-providing,  sure 
enough,"  Sam  Wetherby  remarked.  "They  are  both 
written  to  the  pretty  Helen  Kemble  that  he  used  to  make 
eyes  at  in  the  singing-school.  I  guess  he  thinks  that  you 
might  stop  a  bullet  as  well  as  himself,  Jim." 

"  It 's  clear  he  thinks  your  chances  for  taking  in  lead  are 
just  as  good,"  replied  Jim.  "  But  come,  I  'm  one  of  them 
fellows  that 's  never  hit  till  I  am  hit.  One  thing  at  a  time, 
and  now  it 's  breakfast." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  69 

"  Well,  hanged  if  I  want  to  charge  under  the  lead  of  any 
other  captain  !  "  remarked  Sam,  meditatively  sipping  his 
coffee.  "  If  that  girl  up  yonder  knows  Cap's  worth,  she  '11 
cry  her  eyes  out  if  anything  happens  to  him." 

A  few  moments  later  the  birds  fled  to  the  closest  cover, 
startled  by  the  innumerable  bugles  sounding  the  note  of 
preparation.  Soon  the  different  corps,  divisions,  and  bri 
gades  were  upon  their  prescribed  lines  of  march.  No 
movement  could  be  made  without  revealing  the  close  prox 
imity  of  the  enemy.  Rifle-reports  from  skirmish  lines  and 
reconnoitring  parties  speedily  followed.  A  Confederate 
force  was  developed  on  the  turnpike  leading  southwest  from 
the  old  Wilderness  Tavern  ;  and  the  fighting  began.  At 
about  eight  o'clock  Grant  and  Meade  came  up  and  made 
their  headquarters  beneath  some  pine-trees  near  the  tavern. 
General  Grant  could  scarcely  believe  at  first  that  Lee  had 
left  his  strong  intrenchments  to  give  battle  in  a  region  little 
better  than  a  jungle ;  but  he  soon  had  ample  and  awful 
proof  of  the  fact.  Practically  unseen  by  each  other,  the 
two  armies  grappled  like  giants  in  the  dark.  So  thick 
were  the  trees  and  undergrowth  that  a  soldier  on  a  battle 
line  could  rarely  see  a  thousand  men  on  either  side  of  him, 
yet  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  men  matched  their  deadly 
strength  that  day.  Hundreds  fell,  died,  and  were  hidden 
forever  from  human  eyes. 

Thinking  to  sweep  away  the  rear-guard  of  Lee's  retreat 
ing  army,  Grant  ordered  a  strong  advance  on  the  pike  in 
the  afternoon.  At  first  it  was  eminently  successful,  and  if 
it  had  been  followed  up  vigorously  and  steadily,  as  it  un 
doubtedly  would  have  been  if  the  commander  had  known 
what  was  afterward  revealed,  it  might  have  resulted  in  se 
vere  disaster  to  the  Confederates.  The  enemy  was  pressed 
back  rapidly  ;  and  the  advancing  Union  forces  were  filled 


70  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

with  enthusiasm.  Before  this  early  success  culminated,  gen 
uine  sorrow  saddened  every  one  in  Captain  Nichol's  com 
pany.  With  his  face  toward  the  enemy,  impetuously  leading 
his  men,  he  suddenly  dropped  his  sword  and  fell  senseless. 
Sam  and  Jim  Wetherby  heard  a  shell  shrieking  toward  them, 
and  saw  it  explode  directly  over  their  beloved  leader.  They 
rushed  to  his  side ;  blood  was  pouring  over  his  face,  and  it 
also  seemed  to  them  that  a  fragment  of  the  shell  had  fatally 
wounded  him  in  the  forehead. 

"  Poor  Cap,  poor,  brave  Cap  !  "  ejaculated  Sam.  "  He 
did  n't  give  us  those  letters  for  nothing." 

"A  bad  job,  an  awfully  bad  job  for  us  all  !  curse  the 
eyes  that  aimed  that  shell !  "  growled  practical  Jim.  "  Here, 
take  hold.  We  '11  put  him  in  that  little  dry  ditch  we  just 
passed,  and  bury  him  after  the  fight,  if  still  on  our  pins.  We 
can't  leave  him  here  to  be  tramped  on." 

This  they  did,  then  hastily  rejoined  their  company,  which 
had  swept  on  with  the  battle  line.  Alas  !  that  battle  line 
and  others  also  were  driven  back  with  terrible  slaughter  be 
fore  the  day  closed.  Captain  Nichol  was  left  in  the  ditch 
where  he  had  been  placed,  and  poor  Sam  Wetherby  lay  on 
his  back,  staring  with  eyes  that  saw  not  at  a  shattered  bird's 
nest  in  the  bushes  above  his  head.  The  letter  in  his  pocket 
mouldered  with  him. 

Jim's  begrimed  and  impassive  face  disguised  an  aching 
heart  as  he  boiled  his  coffee  alone  that  night.  Then,  al 
though  wearied  almost  to  exhaustion,  he  gave  himself  no 
rest  until  he  had  found  what  promised  to  be  the  safest 
means  of  forwarding  the  letter  in  his  pocket. 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  Ji 

CHAPTER   II. 

LOVE   AT    HOME. 

T  ONG  years  before  the  war,  happy  children  were  grow- 
•^**  ing  in  the  village  of  Alton.  They  studied  the  history 
of  wars  much  as  they  conned  their  lessons  in  geography. 
Scenes  of  strife  belonged  to  the  past,  or  were  enacted 
among  people*  wholly  unlike  any  who  dwelt  in  their  peace 
ful  community.  That  Americans  should  ever  fight  each 
other  was  as  undreamed  of  as  that  the  minister  should  have 
a  pitched  battle  in  the  street  with  his  Sunday-school  super 
intendent.  They  rejoiced  mildly  when  in  their  progress 
through  the  United  States  history,  they  came  to  pages  de 
scriptive  of  Indian  wars  and  the  Revolutionary  struggle, 
since  they  found  their  lessons  then  more  easily  remembered 
than  the  wordy  disputes  and  little  understood  decisions  of 
statesmen.  The  first  skating  on  the  pond  was  an  event 
which  far  transcended  in  importance  anything  related  be 
tween  the  green  covers  of  the  old  history  book,  while  to 
Albert  Nichol  the  privilege  of  strapping  skates  on  the  feet 
of  little  Helen  Kemble,  and  gliding  away  with  her  over  the 
smooth  ice,  was  a  triumph  unknown  by  any  general.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  plain  farmer,  and  she  the  daughter  of  the 
village  banker.  Thus,  even  in  childhood,  there  was  thrown 
around  her  the  glamour  of  position  and  reputed  wealth,  — 
advantages  which  have  their  value  among  the  most  demo 
cratic  folk,  although  slight  outward  deference  may  be  paid 
to  their  possessors.  It  was  the  charming  little  face  itself, 
with  its  piquant  smiles  and  still  more  piquant  pouts,  which 
won  Albert's  boyish  admiration.  The  fact  that  she  was  the 


72  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES 

banker's  daughter  only  fired  his  ambition  to  be  and  to  do 
something  to  make  her  proud  of  him. 

Hobart  Martine,  another  boy  of  the  village,  shared  all 
his  schoolmate's  admiration  for  pretty  Nellie,  as  she  was 
usually  called.  He  had  been  lame  from  birth,  and  could 
not  skate.  He  could  only  shiver  on  the  bank  or  stamp 
around  to  keep  himself  warm,  while  the  athletic  Al  and  the 
graceful  little  girl  passed  and  repassed,  quite  forgetting  him. 
There  was  one  thing  he  could  do ;  and  this  pleasure  he 
waited  for  till  often  numb  with  cold.  He  could  draw  the 
child  on  his  sled  to  her  home,  which  adjoined  his  own. 

When  it  came  his  turn  to  do  this,  and  he  limped  patiently 
through  the  snow,  tugging  at  the  rope,  his  heart  grew  warm 
as  well  as  his  chilled  body.  She  was  a  rather  imperious  little 
belle  with  the  other  boys,  but  was  usually  gentle  with  him 
because  he  was  lame  and  quiet.  When  she  thanked  him 
kindly  and  pleasantly  at  her  gate,  he  was  so  happy  that  he 
could  scarcely  eat  his  supper.  Then  his  mother  would 
laugh  and  say,  "You've  been  with  your  little  sweetheart." 
He  would  flush  and  make  no  reply. 

How  little  did  those  children  dream  of  war,  even  when 
studying  their  history  lessons  !  Yet  Albert  Nichol  now  lay 
in  the  Wilderness  jungle.  He  had  done  much  to  make  his 
little  playmate  proud  of  him.  The  sturdy  boy  developed 
into  a  manly  man.  When  he  responded  to  his  country's 
call  and  raised  a  company  among  his  old  friends  and  neigh 
bors,  Helen  Kemble  exulted  over  him  tearfully.  She  gave 
him  the  highest  tribute  within  her  power  and  dearest  pos 
session,  —  her  heart.  She  made  every  campaign  with  him,  fol 
lowing  him  with  love's  untiring  solicitude  through  the  scenes 
he  described,  until  at  last  the  morning  paper  turned  the  morn 
ing  sunshine  into  mockery  and  the  songs  of  the  birds  into 
dirges.  Captain  Nichol's  name  was  on  the  list  of  the  killed. 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  73 

With  something  of  the  same  jealousy,  developed  and  in 
tensified,  which  he  had  experienced  while  watching  Albert 
glide  away  on  the  ice  with  the  child  adored  in  a  dumb, 
boyish  way,  Hobart  had  seen  his  old  schoolmate  depart  for 
the  front.  Then  his  rival  took  the  girl  from  him ;  now  he 
took  her  heart.  Marline's  lameness  kept  him  from  being  a 
soldier.  He  again  virtually  stood  chilled  on  the  bank,  with 
a  cold,  dreary,  hopeless  feeling  which  he  believed  would  be 
numb  his  life.  He  did  not  know,  he  was  not  sure  that  he 
had  lost  Helen  beyond  hope,  until  those  lurid  days  when 
men  on  both  sides  were  arming  and  drilling  for  mutual 
slaughter.  She  was  always  so  kind  to  him,  and  her  tones 
so  gentle  when  she  spoke,  that  in  love's  fond  blindness  he 
had  dared  to  hope.  He  eventually  learned  that  she  was 
only  sorry  for  him.  He  did  not,  could  not,  blame  her, 
for  he  needed  but  to  glance  at  Nichol's  stalwart  form, 
and  recall  the  young  soldier's  record  in  order  to  know  that 
it  would  be  strange  indeed  if  the  girl  had  chosen  otherwise. 
He  would  have  been  more  than  human  if  there  had  not 
been  some  bitterness  in  his  heart ;  but  he  fought  it  down 
honestly,  and  while  pursuing  his  peaceful  avocations  en 
gaged  in  what  he  believed  would  be  a  lifelong  battle.  He 
smiled  at  the  girl  across  the  garden  fence  and  called  out  his 
cheery  "  Good-morning."  He  was  her  frequent  companion 
by  the  fireside  or  on  the  piazza,  according  to  the  season ; 
and  he  alone  of  the  young  men  was  welcome,  for  she  had 
little  sympathy  for  those  who  remained  at  home  without 
his  excuse.  He  was  so  bravely  her  friend,  keeping  his 
great  love  so  sternly  repressed  that  she  only  felt  it  like 
a  genial  warmth  in  his  tones  and  manner,  and  believed 
that  he  was  becoming  in  truth  what  he  seemed,  merely  a 
friend. 

On  that  terrible  May  morning  he  was  out  in  the  garden 


74  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

and  heard  her  wild,  despairing  cry  as  she  read  the  fatal 
words.  He  knew  that  a  heavy  battle  had  been  begun,  and 
was  going  down  to  the  gate  for  his  paper,  which  the  news 
boy  had  just  left.  There  was  no  need  of  opening  it,  for  the 
bitter  cry  he  had  heard  made  known  to  him  the  one  item 
of  intelligence  compared  with  which  all  else  for  the  time 
became  insignificant.  Was  it  the  Devil  that  inspired  a 
great  throb  of  hope  in  his  heart?  At  any  rate  he  thought 
it  was,  and  ground  his  heel  into  the  gravel  as  if  the  ser 
pent's  head  was  beneath  it,  then  limped  to  Mr.  Kemble's 
door. 

The  old  banker  came  out  to  meet  him,  shaking  his  gray 
head  and  holding  the  paper  in  his  trembling  hand.  "  Ah  !  " 
he  groaned,  "  I  've  feared  it,  I  Ve  feared  it  all  along,  but 
hoped  that  it  would  not  be.  You  've  seen  Nichol's  name  — " 
but  he  could  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  No,  I  have  seen  nothing ;  I  only  heard  Helen's  cry. 
That  told  the  whole  story." 

"  Yes.  Well,  her  mother  's  with  her.  Poor  girl !  poor 
girl !  God  grant  it  is  n't  her  death-blow  too.  She  has 
suffered  too  much  under  this  long  strain  of  anxiety." 

A  generous  resolve  was  forming  in  Marline's  mind,  and 
he  said  earnestly,  "  We  must  tide  her  through  this  ter 
rible  shock.  There  may  be  some  mistake  ;  he  may  be  only 
wounded.  Do  not  let  her  give  up  hope  absolutely.  I  '11 
drop  everything  and  go  to  the  battle-field  at  once.  If  the 
worst  has  in  truth  happened,  I  can  bring  home  his  remains, 
and  that  would  be  a  comfort  to  her.  A  newspaper  report, 
made  up  hastily  in  the  field,  is  not  final.  Let  this  hope 
break  the  cruel  force  of  the  blow,  for  it  is  hard  to  live 
without  hope." 

"  Well,  Hobart,  you  are  a  true  friend.  God  bless  and 
reward  you  !  If  nothing  comes  of  it  for  poor  Nichol,  as 


FOUND.  YET  LOST.  75 

'  I  fear  nothing  will,  your  journey  and  effort  will  give  a 
faint  hope  to  Nellie,  and,  as  you  say,  break  the  force  of 
the  blow.  I  '11  go  and  tell  her." 

Martine  went  into  the  parlor,  which  Helen  had  deco 
rated  with  mementos  of  her  soldier  lover.  He  was  alone 
but  a  few  moments  before  he  heard  hasty  steps.  Helen 
entered  with  hot,  tearless  eyes  and  an  agonized,  imploring 
expression. 

"  What !  "  she  cried,  "  is  it  true  that  you  '11  go?  " 

"  Yes,  Helen,  immediately.  I  do  not  think  there  's  reason 
for  despair." 

"  Oh,  God  bless  you  !  friend,  friend  !  I  never  knew  what 
the  word  meant  before.  Oh,  Hobart,  no  sister  ever  lavished 
love  on  a  brother  as  I  will  love  you  if  you  bring  back  my 
Albert ;  "  and  in  the  impulse  of  her  overwhelming  gratitude 
she  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and  sobbed  aloud. 
Hope  already  brought  the  relief  of  tears. 

He  stroked  the  bowed  head  gently,  saying,  "  God  is  my 
witness,  Helen,  that  I  will  spare  no  pains  and  shrink  from 
no  danger  in  trying  to  find  Captain  Nichol.  I  have  known 
of  many  instances  where  the  first  reports  of  battles  proved 
incorrect ;  "  and  he  led  her  to  a  chair. 

"  It  is  asking  so  much  of  you,"  she  faltered. 

"  You  have  asked  nothing,  Helen.  I  have  offered  to  go, 
and  I  am  going.  It  is  a  little  thing  for  me  to  do.  You 
know  that  my  lameness  only  kept  me  from  joining  Captain 
Nichol's  company.  Now  try  to  control  your  natural  feelings 
like  a  brave  girl,  while  I  explain  my  plans  as  far  as  I  have 
formed  them." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  Wait  a  few  moments.  Oh,  this  pain  at 
my  heart !  I  think  it  would  have  broken  if  you  had  n't 
come.  I  could  n't  breathe  ;  I  just  felt  as  if  sinking  under 
a  weight." 


76  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Take  courage,  Helen.    Remember  Albert  is  a  soldier." 

"  Is,  is!  Oh,  thanks  for  that  little  word  !  You  do  not 
believe  that  he  is  gone  and  lost  to  me?" 

"  I  cannot  believe  it  yet.  We  will  not  believe  it.  Now 
listen  patiently,  for  you  will  have  your  part  to  do." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  if  I  could  only  do  something  !  That  would 
help  me  so  much.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  go  with  you  !  " 

"  That  would  not  be  best  or  wise,  and  might  defeat  my 
efforts.  I  must  be  free  to  go  where  you  could  not,  —  to 
visit  places  unsafe  for  you.  My  first  step  must  be  to  get 
letters  to  our  State  senator.  Your  father  can  write  one,  and 
I  '11  get  one  or  two  others.  The  senator  will  give  me  a  let 
ter  to  the  governor,  who  in  turn  will  accredit  me  to  the  au 
thorities  at  Washington  and  the  officer  in  command  on  the 
battle-field.  You  know  I  shall  need  passes.  Those  who  go 
to  the  extreme  front  must  be  able  to  account  for  them 
selves.  I  will  keep  in  telegraphic  communication  with  you, 
and  you  may  receive  additional  tidings  which  will  aid  me  in 
my  search.  Mr.  Kemble  !  "  he  concluded,  calling  her  father 
from  his  perturbed  pacing  up  and  down  the  hall. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  banker,  entering,  "  this  is  a  hundredfold 
better  than  despairing,  useless  grief.  I  've  heard  the  gist 
of  what  Hobart  has  said,  and  approve  it.  Now  I  '11  call 
mother,  so  that  we  may  all  take  courage  and  get  a  good 
grip  on  hope." 

They  consulted  together  briefly,  and  in  the  prospect  of 
action,  Helen  was  carried  through  the  first  dangerous  crisis 
in  her  experience. 


FOUND   YET  LOST.  77 

\ 

CHAPTER   III. 

"DISABLED." 

IV /f  RS.  MARTINE  grieved  over  her  son  s  unexpected  re- 
•*•  solve.  In  her  estimation  he  was  engaging  in  a  very 

dangerous  and  doubtful  expedition.  Probably  mothers  will 
never  outgrow  a  certain  jealousy  when  they  find  that  another 
woman  has  become  first  in  the  hearts  of  their  sons.  The 
sense  of  robbery  was  especially  strong  in  this  case,  for  Mrs. 
Martine  was  a  widow,  and  Hobart  an  only  and  idolized  child. 

The  mother  speedily  saw  that  it  would  be  useless  to  re 
monstrate,  and  tearfully  aided  him  in  his  preparations.  Be 
fore  he  departed,  he  won  her  over  as  an  ally.  "  These  times, 
mother,  are  bringing  heavy  burdens  to  very  many,  and  we 
should  help  each  other  bear  them.  You  know  what  Helen  is 
to  me,  and  must  be  always.  That  is  something  which  cannot 
be  changed.  My  love  has  grown  with  my  growth  and  become 
inseparable  from  my  life.  I  have  my  times  of  weakness, 
but  think  I  can  truly  say  that  I  love  her  so  well  that  I  would 
rather  make  her  happy  at  any  cost  to  myself.  If  it  is  within 
my  power,  I  shall  certainly  bring  Nichol  back,  alive  or  dead. 
Prove  your  love  to  me,  mother,  by  cheering,  comforting,  and 
sustaining  that  poor  girl.  I  have  n't  as  much  hope  of  suc 
cess  as  I  tried  to  give  her,  but  she  needs  hope  now ;  she 
must  have  it,  or  there  is  no  assurance  against  disastrous 
effects  on  her  health  and  mind.  I  could  n't  bear  that." 

"  Well,  Hobart,  if  he  is  dead,  she  certainly  ought  to  reward 
you  some  day." 

"  We  must  not  think  of  that.  The  future  is  not  in  our 
hands.  We  can  only  do  what  is  duty  now." 


78  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

Noble,  generous  purposes  give  their  impress  to  that  in 
dex  of  character,  the  human  face.  When  Martine  came 
to  say  good-by  to  Helen,  she  saw  the  quiet,  patient  cripple 
in  a  new  light.  He  no  longer  secured  her  strong  affection 
chiefly  on  the  basis  of  gentle,  womanly  commiseration.  He 
was  proving  the  possession  of  those  qualities  which  appeal 
strongly  to  the  feminine  nature ;  he  was  showing  himself 
capable  of  prompt,  courageous  action,  and  his  plain  face,  re 
vealing  the  spirit  which  animated  him,  became  that  of  a  hero 
in  her  eyes.  She  divined  the  truth,  —  the  love  so  strong 
and  unselfish  that  it  would  sacrifice  itself  utterly  for  her. 
He  was  seeking  to  bring  back  her  lover  when  success  in 
his  mission  would  blot  out  all  hope  for  him.  The  effect  of 
his  action  was  most  salutary,  rousing  her  from  the  inertia 
of  grief  and  despair.  "  If  a  mere  friend,"  she  murmured, 
"  can  be  so  brave  and  self-forgetful,  I  have  no  excuse  for 
giving  away  utterly." 

She  revealed  in  some  degree  her  new  impressions  in  part 
ing.  "  Hobart,"  she  said,  holding  his  hand  in  both  of  hers, 
"  you  have  done  much  to  help  me.  You  have  not  only 
brought  hope,  but  you  have  also  shown  a  spirit  which  would 
shame  me  out  of  a  selfish  grief.  I  cannot  now  forget  the 
claims  of  others,  of  my  dear  father  and  mother  here,  and  I 
promise  you  that  I  will  try  to  be  brave  like  you,  like  Albert. 
I  shall  not  become  a  weak,  helpless  burden,  I  shall  not  sit 
still  and  wring  idle  hands  when  others  are  heroically  doing 
and  suffering.  Good-by,  my  friend,  my  brother.  God  help 
us  all !  " 

He  felt  that  she  understood  him  now  as  never  before  ; 
and  the  knowledge  inspired  a  more  resolute  purpose,  if  this 
were  possible.  That  afternoon  he  was  on  his  way.  There 
came  two  or  three  days  of  terrible  suspense  for  Helen,  re 
lieved  only  by  telegrams  from  Martine  as  he  passed  from 


POUND   YET  LOST.  jg 

point  to  point.  The  poor  girl  struggled  as  a  swimmer 
breasts  pitiless  waves  intervening  between  him  and  the 
shore.  She  scarcely  allowed  herself  an  idle  moment ;  but 
her  effort  was  feverish  and  in  a  measure  the  result  of  ex 
citement.  The  papers  were  searched  for  any  scrap  of 
intelligence,  and  the  daily  mail  waited  for  until  the  hours 
and  minutes  were  counted  before  its  arrival. 

One  morning  her  father  placed  Nichol's  letter  in  her 
hands.  They  so  trembled  in  the  immense  hope,  the  over 
whelming  emotion  which  swept  over  her  at  sight  of  the 
familiar  handwriting,  that  at  first  she  could  not  open  it. 
When  at  last  she  read  the  prophetic  message,  she  almost 
blotted  out  the  writing  with  her  tears,  moaning,  "  He  's  dead, 
he  's  dead  !  "  In  her  morbid,  overwrought  condition,  the 
foreboding  that  had  been  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  was  con 
veyed  to  hers  ;  and  she  practically  gave  up  hope  for  anything 
better  than  the  discovery  and  return  of  his  remains.  Her 
father,  mother,  and  intimate  friends  tried  in  vain  to  rally 
her;  but  the  conviction  remained  that  she  had  read  her 
lover's  farewell  words,  In  spite  of  the  most  pathetic  and 
strenuous  effort,  she  could  not  keep  up  any  longer,  and 
sobbed  till  she  slept  in  utter  exhaustion. 

On  the  following  day,  old  Mr.  Wetherby  came  into  the 
bank.  The  lines  about  his  mouth  were  rigid  with  suppressed 
feeling.  He  handed  Mr.  Kemble  a  letter,  saying  in  a  husky 
voice,  "  Jim  sent  this.  He  says  at  the  end  I  was  to  show  it 
to  you."  The  scrawl  gave  in  brief  the  details  about  Captain 
Nichol  already  known  to  the  reader,  and  stated  also  that 
Sam  Wetherby  was  missing.  "  All  I  know  is,"  wrote  the 
soldier,  "  that  we  were  driven  back,  and  bullets  flew  like 
hail.  The  brush  was  so  thick  I  could  n't  see  five  yards 
either  way  when  I  lost  sight  of  Sam." 

The  colonel  of  the  regiment  also  wrote  to  Captain  Nichol's 


8O  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

father,  confirming  Private  Wetherby's  letter.  The  village 
had  been  thrown  into  a  ferment  by  the  tidings  of  the  battle 
and  its  disastrous  consequences.  There  was  bitter  lamen 
tation  in  many  homes.  Perhaps  the  names  of  Captain 
Nichol  and  Helen  were  oftenest  repeated  in  the  little  com 
munity,  for  the  fact  of  their  mutual  hopes  was  no  longer  a 
secret.  Even  thus  early  some  sagacious  people  nodded 
their  heads  and  remarked,  "  Hobart  Martine  may  have  his 
chance  yet."  Helen  Kemble  believed  without  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt  that  all  the  heart  she  had  for  love  had  perished 
in  the  wilderness. 

The  facts  contained  in  Jim  Wetherby's  letter  were  tele 
graphed  to  Martine,  and  he  was  not  long  in  discovering 
confirmation  of  them  in  the  temporary  hospitals  near  the 
battle-field.  He  found  a  man  of  Captain  NichoFs  com 
pany  to  whom  Jim  had  related  the  circumstances.  For 
days  the  loyal  friend  searched  laboriously  the  horrible 
region  of  strife,  often  sickened  nearly  unto  death  by  the 
scenes  he  witnessed,  for  his  nature  had  not  been  rendered 
callous  by  familiarity  with  the  results  of  war.  Then  instead 
of  returning  home,  he  employed  the  influence  given  by  his 
letters  and  passes,  backed  by  his  own  earnest  pleading,  to 
obtain  permission  for  a  visit  to  Nichol's  regiment.  He 
found  it  under  fire ;  and  long  afterward  Jim  Wetherby  was 
fond  of  relating  how  quietly  the  lame  civilian  listened  to  the 
shells  shrieking  over  and  exploding  around  him.  Thus 
Martine  learned  all  that  could  be  gathered  of  Nichol's  fate, 
and  then,  ill  and  exhausted,  he  turned  his  face  northward. 
He  felt  that  it  would  be  a  hopeless  task  to  renew  his  search 
on  the  battle-field,  much  of  which  had  been  burned  over. 
He  also  had  the  conviction  it  would  be  fatal  to  him  to  look 
upon  its  unspeakable  horrors,  and  breathe  again  its  pesti 
lential  air. 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  8 1 

He  was  a  sick  man  when  he  arrived  at  home,  but  was 
able  to  relate  modestly  in  outline  the  history  of  his  efforts, 
softening  and  concealing  much  that  he  had  witnessed.  In 
the  delirium  of  fever  which  followed,  they  learned  more 
fully  of  what  he  had  endured,  of  how  he  had  forced  himself 
to  look  upon  things  which,  reproduced  in  his  ravings,  almost 
froze  the  blood  of  his  watchers. 

Helen  Kemble  felt  that  her  cup  of  bitterness  had  been 
filled  anew,  yet  the  distraction  of  a  new  grief,  in  which  there 
was  a  certain  remorseful  self-reproach,  had  the  effect  of 
blunting  the  sharp  edge  of  her  first  sorrow.  In  this  new 
cause  for  dread  she  was  compelled  in  some  degree  to  for 
get  herself.  She  saw  the  intense  solicitude  of  her  father 
and  mother,  who  had  been  so  readily  accessory  to  Martine's 
expedition  ;  she  also  saw  that  his  mother's  heart  was  almost 
breaking  under  the  strain  of  anxiety.  His  incoherent  words 
were  not  needed  to  reveal  that  his  effort  had  been  prompted 
by  his  love.  She  was  one  of  his  watchers,  patiently  endur 
ing  the  expressions  of  regret  which  the  mother  in  her  sharp 
agony  could  not  repress.  Nichol's  last  letter  was  now 
known  by  heart,  its  every  word  felt  to  be  prophetic.  She 
had  indeed  been  called  upon  to  exercise  courage  and  forti 
tude  greater  than  he  could  manifest  even  in  the  Wilderness 
battle.  Although  she  often  faltered,  she  did  not  fail  in  car 
rying  out  his  instructions.  When  at  last  Martine,  a  pallid 
convalescent,  could  sit  in  the  shade  on  the  piazza,  she 
looked  older  by  years,  having,  besides,  the  expression  seen 
in  the  eyes  of  some  women  who  have  suffered  much,  and 
can  still  suffer  much  more.  In  the  matter  relating  to  their 
deepest  consciousness,  no  words  had  passed  between  them. 
She  felt  as  if  she  were  a  widow,  and  hoped  he  would  un 
derstand.  His  full  recognition  of  her  position,  and  ac 
ceptance  of  the  fact  that  she  did  and  must  mourn  for  her 

6 


82  TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

lover,  his  complete  self-abnegation,  brought  her  a  sense  of 
peace. 

The  old  clock  on  the  landing  of  the  stairway  measured  off 
the  hours  and  days  with  monotonous  regularity.  Some  of  the 
hours  and  days  had  been  immeasurably  longer  than  the  an 
cient  time-keeper  had  indicated  ;  but  in  accordance  with  usual 
human  experiences,  they  began  to  grow  shorter.  Poignant 
sorrow  cannot  maintain  its  severity,  or  people  could  not  live. 
Vines,  grasses,  and  flowers  covered  the  graves  in  Virginia ; 
the  little  cares,  duties,  and  amenities  of  life  began  to  screen 
at  times  the  sorrows  that  were  nevertheless  ever  present. 

"  Hobart,"  Helen  said  one  day  in  the  latter  part  of  June, 
"  do  you  think  you  will  be  strong  enough  to  attend  the  com 
memorative  services  next  week  ?  You  know  they  have  been 
waiting  for  you." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  quietly;  "and  they  should  not  have 
delayed  them  so  long.  It  is  very  sad  that  so  many  others 
have  been  added  since  —  since  — ' 

"  Well,  you  have  not  been  told,  for  we  have  tried  to  keep 
every  depressing  and  disquieting  influence  from  you.  Dr. 
Barnes  said  it  was  very  necessary,  because  you  had  seen 
so  much  that  you  should  try  to  forget.  Ah,  my  friend,  I  can 
never  forget  what  you  suffered  for  me  !  Captain  Nichol's 
funeral  sermon  was  preached  while  you  were  so  ill.  I  was 
not  present  —  I  could  not  be.  I  Ve  been  to  see  his  mother 
often,  and  she  understands  me.  I  could  not  have  controlled 
my  grief,  and  I  have  a  horror  of  displaying  my  most  sacred 
feelings  in  public.  Father  and  the  people  also  wish  you  to 
be  present  at  the  general  commemorative  services,  when 
our  senator  will  deliver  a  eulogy  on  those  of  our  town  who 
have  fallen  ;  but  I  don't  think  you  should  go  if  you  feel  that 
it  will  have  a  bad  effect  on  you." 

"  I   shall  be  present,  Helen.     I  suppose  my  mind  has 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  83 

been  weak  like  my  body ;  but  the  time  has  come  when  I 
must  take  up  life  again  and  accept  its  conditions  as  others 
are  doing.  You  certainly  are  setting  me  a  good  example. 
I  admit  that  my  illness  has  left  a  peculiar  repugnance  to 
hearing  and  thinking  about  the  war ;  it  all  seemed  so  very 
horrible.  But  if  our  brave  men  can  face  the  thing  itself,  I 
should  be  weak  indeed  if  I  could  not  listen  to  a  eulogy  of 
their  deeds." 

"I  am  coming  to  think,"  resumed  Helen,  thoughtfully, 
"  that  the  battle  line  extends  from  Maine  to  the  Gulf,  and 
that  quiet  people  like  you  and  me  are  upon  it  as  truly  as 
the  soldiers  in  the  field.  I  have  thought  that  perhaps  the 
most  merciful  wounds  are  often  those  which  kill  outright." 

"  I  can  easily  believe  that,"  he  said. 

His  quiet  tone  and  manner  did  not  deceive  her,  and  she 
looked  at  him  wistfully  as  she  resumed,  "  But  if  they  do 
not  kill,  the  pain  must  be  borne  patiently,  even  though  we 
are  in  a  measure  disabled." 

"  Yes,  Helen ;  and  you  are  disabled  in  your  power  to 
give  me  what  I  can  never  help  giving  you.  I  know  that. 
I  will  not  misjudge  or  presume  upon  your  kindness.  We 
are  too  good  friends  to  affect  any  concealments  from  each 
other." 

"  You  have  expressed  my  very  thought.  When  you  spoke 
of  accepting  the  conditions  of  life,  I  hoped  you  had  in  mind 
what  you  have  said,  —  the  conditions  of  life  as  they  are, 
as  we  cannot  help  or  change  them.  We  both  have  got  to 
take  up  life  under  new  conditions." 

"  You  have  ;  not  I,  Helen." 

Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  as  she  faltered,  "  I  would  be 
transparently  false  should  I  affect  not  to  know.  What  I 
wish  you  to  feel  through  the  coming  months  and  years  is 
that  I  cannot, — that  I  am  disabled  by  my  wound." 


84  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  I  understand,  Helen.  We  can  go  on  as  we  have  begun. 
You  have  lost,  as  I  have  not,  for  I  have  never  possessed. 
You  will  be  the  greater  sufferer ;  and  it  will  be  my  dear 
privilege  to  cheer  and  sustain  you  in  such  ways  as  are 
possible  to  a  simple  friend." 

She  regarded  him  gratefully,  and  for  the  first  time  since 
that  terrible  May  morning  the  semblance  of  a  smile  briefly 
illumined  her  face. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

MARTINE   SEEKS   AN   ANTIDOTE. 

TT  can  readily  be  understood  that  Martine  in  his  expedi- 
tion  to  the  South,  had  not  limited  his  efforts  solely  to 
his  search  for  Captain  Nichol.  Wherever  it  had  been  within 
his  power  he  had  learned  all  that  he  could  of  other  officers 
and  men  who  had  come  from  his  native  region ;  and  his 
letters  to  their  relatives  had  been  in  some  instances  sources 
of  unspeakable  comfort.  In  his  visit  to  the  front  he  had 
also  seen  and  conversed  with  his  fellow-townsmen,  some  of 
whom  had  since  perished  or  had  been  wounded.  As  he 
grew  stronger,  Helen  wrote  out  at  his  dictation  all  that  he 
could  remember  concerning  these  interviews ;  and  these 
accounts  became  precious  heirlooms  in  many  families. 

On  the  Fourth  of  July  the  commemorative  oration  was 
delivered  by  the  senator,  who  proved  himself  to  be  more 
than  senator  by  his  deep,  honest  feeling  and  good  taste. 
The  "  spread  eagle  "  element  was  conspicuously  absent  in 
his  solemn,  dignified,  yet  hopeful  words.  He  gave  to  each 
their  meed  of  praise.  He  grew  eloquent  over  the  enlisted 
men  who  had  so  bravely  done  their  duty  without  the  in- 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  85 

centive  of  ambition.  When  he  spoke  of  the  honor  re 
flected  on  the  village  by  the  heroism  of  Captain  Nichol,  the 
hearts  of  the  people  glowed  with  gratitude  and  pride ;  but 
thoughts  of  pity  came  to  all  as  they  remembered  the 
girl,  robed  in  black,  who  sat  with  bowed  head  among 
them. 

"  I  can  best  bring  my  words  to  a  close,"  said  the  sena 
tor,  "  by  reading  part  of  a  letter  written  by  one  of  your 
townsmen,  a  private  in  the  ranks,  yet  expressive  of  feelings 
inseparable  from  our  common  human  nature,  — 

"  DEAR  FATHER, — You  know  I  ain't  much  given  to  fine  feel 
ings  or  fine  words.  Poor  Sam  beat  me  all  holler  in  such  things; 
but  I  want  you  and  all  the  folks  in  Alton  to  know  that  you  've  got 
a  regular  soldier  at  home.  Of  course  we  were  all  glad  to  see  Bart 
Martine  ;  and  we  expected  to  have  a  good-natured  laugh  at  his 
expense  when  the  shells  began  to  fly.  Soldiers  laugh,  as  they 
eat,  every  chance  they  get,  'cause  they  remember  it  may  be  the 
last  one.  Well,  we  knew  Bart  didn't  know  any  more  about 
war  than  a  chicken,  and  we  expected  to  see  him  get  very  nerv 
ous  and  limp  off  to  the  rear  on  the  double  quick.  He  did  n't 
scare  worth  a  cent.  When  a  shell  screeched  over  our  heads,  he 
just  waited  till  the  dinged  noise  was  out  of  our  ears  and  then 
went  on  with  his  questions  about  poor  Cap  and  Sam  and  the 
others  from  our  town.  We  were  supporting  a  battery,  and  most 
of  us  lying  down.  He  sat  there  with  us  a  good  hour,  telling 
about  the  folks  at  home,  and  how  you  were  all  following  us 
with  your  thoughts  and  prayers,  and  how  you  all  mourned  with 
those  who  lost  friends,  and  were  looking  after  the  children  of 
the  killed  and  wounded.  Fact  is,  before  we  knew  it  we  were 
all  on  our  feet  cheering  for  Alton  and  the  folks  at  home  and 
the  little  lame  man,  who  was  just  as  good  a  soldier  as  any  of 
us.  I  tell  you  he  heartened  up  the  boys,  what's  left  of  us. 
I  'm  sorry  to  hear  he  's  so  sick.  If  he  should  die,  bury  him 
with  a  soldier's  honors. 

"  JAMES  WETHERBY. 


86  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"These  plain,  simple,  unadorned  words,"  concluded  the 
senator,  "  need  no  comment.  Their  force  and  significance 
cannot  be  enhanced  by  anything  I  can  say.  I  do  not  know 
that  I  could  listen  quietly  to  shrieking  and  exploding  shells 
while  I  spoke  words  of  courage  and  good  cheer ;  but  I 
do  know  that  I  wish  to  be  among  the  foremost  to  honor 
your  modest,  unassuming  townsman,  who  could  do  all  this 
and  more." 

Martine  was  visibly  distressed  by  this  unexpected  feature 
in  the  oration  and  the  plaudits  which  followed.  He  was 
too  sad,  too  weak  in  body  and  mind,  and  too  fresh  from  the 
ghastly  battle-field,  not  to  shrink  in  sensitive  pain  from  per 
sonal  and  public  commendation.  He  evaded  his  neighbors 
as  far  as  possible  and  limped  hastily  away. 

He  did  not  see  Helen  again  till  the  following  morning, 
for  her  wound  had  been  opened  afresh,  and  she  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  day  and  evening  in  the  solitude  of  her 
room.  Martine  was  troubled  at  this,  and  thought  she  felt 
as  he  did. 

In  the  morning  she  joined  him  on  the  piazza.  She  was 
pale  from  her  long  sad  vigil,  but  renewed  strength  and  a 
gentle  patience  were  expressed  in  her  thin  face. 

"  It 's  too  bad,  Helen,"  he  broke  out  in  unwonted  irrita 
tion.  "  I  would  n't  have  gone  if  I  had  known.  It  was  a 
miserable  letting  down  of  all  that  had  gone  before,  —  that 
reference  to  me." 

Now  she  smiled  brightly  as  she  said,  "You  are  the 
only  one  present  who  thought  so.  Has  this  been  worry 
ing  you?" 

"  Yes,  it  has.  If  the  speaker  had  seen  what  I  saw,  he 
would  have  known  better.  His  words  only  wounded  me." 

"  He  judged  you  by  other  men,  Hobart.  His  words 
would  not  have  wounded  very  many.  I  'm  glad  I  heard 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  87 

that  letter,  —  that  I  have  learned  what  I  never  could  from 
you.  I  'm  very  proud  of  my  friend.  What  silly  creatures 
women  are,  anyway  !  They  want  their  friends  to  be  brave, 
yet  dread  the  consequences  of  their  being  so  beyond 

words." 

"Well,"  said  Marline,  a  little  grimly,  "  I  'm  going  to  my 
office  to-morrow.  I  feel  the  need  of  a  long  course  of  read 
ing  in  Bhckstone." 

"You  nust  help  keep  me  busy  also,"  was  her  reply. 

"  I  've  -.hought  about  that ;  yes,  a  great  deal.  You  need 
some  whoesome,  natural  interest  that  is  capable  of  becom 
ing  some\Nhat  absorbing.  Is  it  strange  that  I  should  recom 
mend  one  phase  of  my  hobby,  flowers?  You  know  that 
every  tree,  shrub,  and  plant  on  our  little  place  is  a  sort  of  a 
pet  with  me.  You  are  fond  of  flowers,  but  have  never  given 
much  though:  to  their  care,  leaving  that  to  your  gardener. 
Flowers  are  oily  half  enjoyed  by  those  who  do  not  cultivate 
them,  nurse,  o:  pet  them.  Then  there  is  such  an  infinite 
variety  that  bebre  you  know  it  your  thoughts  are  pleasantly 
occupied  in  exierimenting  with  even  one  family  of  plants. 
It  is  an  interest  which  will  keep  you  much  in  the  open  air 
and  bring  you  cUse  to  Mother  Nature." 

The  result  of  his  talk  was  that  the  sad-hearted  girl,  first 
by  resolute  effort  and  then  by  a  growing  fondness  for  the 
tasks,  began  to  tike  a  personal  interest  in  the  daily  welfare 
of  her  plants.  Marline  and  her  father  were  always  on  the 
look-out  for  something  new  and  rare ;  and  as  winter  ap- 
proiched,  the  former  had  a  small  conservatory  built  on  the 
suiny  side  of  the  house.  They  also  gave  her  several  caged 
song-birds,  which  soon  learned  to  recognize  and  welcome 
ner.  From  one  of  his  clients  Marline  obtained  a  droll- 
looking  dog  that  seemed  to  possess  almosl  human  intelli 
gence.  In  the  daily  care  of  living  things  and  dependent 


88  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

creatures  that  could  bloom  or  be  joyous  without  jarring 
upon  her  feelings,  as  would  human  mirth  or  gayety,  her 
mind  became  wholesomely  occupied  part  of  each  day ;  she 
could  smile  at  objects  which  did  not  know,  which  could 
not  understand. 

Still,  there  was  no  effort  on  her  part  to  escape  sad  memo 
ries  or  the  acts  and  duties  which  revived  them.  A  noble 
monument  had  been  erected  to  Captain  Nichol,  and  one  of 
her  chief  pleasures  was  to  decorate  it  with  the  flowers  grown 
under  her  own  care.  Few  days  passed  on  which  she  did 
not  visit  one  of  the  families  who  were  or  had  been  repre 
sented  at  the  front,  while  Mrs.  Nichol  felt  that  i:'  she  had 
lost  a  son  she  had  in  a  measure  gained  a  daughtei.  As  the 
months  passed  and  winter  was  well-nigh  spen^  the  wise 
gossips  of  the  village  again  began  to  shake  their  heads  and 
remark,  "  Helen  Kemble  and  Bart  Martine  are  very  good 
friends ;  but  I  guess  that 's  all  it  will  amount  tc —  all,  at  any 
rate,  for  a  long  time." 

All,  for  all  time,  Helen  had  honestly  thought.  It  might 
easily  have  been  for  all  time  had  another  Ifver  sought  her, 
or  if  Martine  himself  had  become  a  wooer  and  so  put  her 
on  her  guard.  It  was  his  patient  acceptance  of  what  she 
had  said  could  not  be  helped,  his  self-fogetfulness,  which 
caused  her  to  remember  his  need,  —  a  need  greatly  in 
creased  by  a  sad  event.  In  the  breaking  up  of  winter  his 
mother  took  a  heavy  cold  which  ended  in  pneumonia  and 
death. 

The  gossips  made  many  plans  for  him  and  indulged  in 
many  surmises  as  to  what  he  would  do ;  tut  he  merely  en 
gaged  the  services  of  an  old  woman  as  domestic,  and  live! 
on  quietly  as  before.  Perhaps  he  grew  a  little  morbid  aftei 
this  bereavement  and  clung  more  closely  to  his  lonely 
hearth. 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  89 

This  would  not  be  strange.  Those  who  dwell  among 
shadows  become  ill  at  ease  away  from  them.  Helen  was 
the  first  to  discover  this  tendency,  and  to  note  that  he  was 
not  rallying  as  she  had  hoped  he  would.  He  rarely  sought 
their  house  except  by  invitation,  and  then  often  lapsed  into 
silences  which  he  broke  with  an  evident  effort.  He  never 
uttered  a  word  of  complaint  or  consciously  appealed  for 
sympathy,  but  was  slowly  yielding  to  the  steady  pressure  of 
sadness  which  had  almost  been  his  heritage.  She  would 
have  been  less  than  woman  if,  recalling  the  past  and  know 
ing  so  well  the  unsatisfied  love  in  his  heart,  she  had  not  felt 
for  him  daily  a  larger  and  deeper  commiseration.  When 
the  early  March  winds  rattled  the  casements,  or  drove  the 
sleety  rain  against  the  windows,  she  saw  him  in  fancy  sitting 
alone  brooding,  always  brooding. 

One  day  she  asked  abruptly,  "  Hobart,  what  are  you 
thinking  about  so  deeply  when  you  are  looking  at  the  fire?  " 

A  slow,  deep  flush  came  into  his  face,  and  he  hesitated  in 
his  answer.  At  last  he  said,  "  I  fear  I  'm  getting  into  a  bad 
mood,  and  think  I  must  do  something  decided.  Well,  for 
one  thing,  the  continuance  of  this  war  weighs  upon  my 
spirit.  Men  are  getting  so  scarce  that  I  believe  they  will 
take  me  in  some  capacity.  Now  that  mother  is  not  here,  I 
think  I  ought  to  go." 

"  Oh,  Hobart,  we  would  miss  you  so  !  "     she  faltered. 

He  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "  Yes,  Helen,  I  think  you 
would,  —  not  many  others,  though.  You  have  become  so 
brave  and  strong  that  you  do  not  need  me  any  more." 

"  I  am  not  so  brave  and  strong  as  I  seem.  If  I  were, 
how  did  I  become  so  ?  With  the  tact  and  delicacy  of  a 
woman,  yet  with  the  strength  of  a  man,  you  broke  the  crush 
ing  force  of  the  first  blow,  and  have  helped  me  ever  since." 

"  You  see'  everything  through  a  very  friendly  medium. 


90  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

At  any  rate  I  could  not  have  been  content  a  moment  if  I 
had  not  done  all  in  my  power.  You  do  not  need  me  any 
longer ;  you  have  become  a  source  of  strength  to  others.  I 
cannot  help  seeing  crowded  hospital  wards ;  and  the  thought 
pursues  me  that  in  one  of  them  I  might  do  something  to 
restore  a  soldier  to  his  place  in  the  field  or  save  him  for 
those  at  home.  I  could  at  least  be  a  hospital  nurse,  and  I  be 
lieve  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  be  doing  some  such  work." 

"  I  believe  it  would  be  better  for  me  also,"  she  answered, 
her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  No,  Helen,  no,  indeed.  You  have  the  higher  mission 
of  healing  the  heart-wounds  which  the  war  is  making  in 
your  own  vicinity.  You  should  not  think  of  leaving  your 
father  and  mother  in  their  old  age,  or  of  filling  their  days 
with  anxiety  which  might  shorten  their  lives." 

"  It  will  be  very  hard  for  us  to  let  you  go.  Oh,  I  did  not 
think  I  would  have  to  face  this  also  !  " 

He  glanced  at  her  hastily,  for  there  was  a  sharp  distress 
in  her  tone,  of  which  she  was  scarcely  conscious  herself. 
Then,  as  if  recollecting  himself,  he  reasoned  gently  and 
earnestly,  "  You  were  not  long  in  adopting  the  best  anti 
dote  for  trouble.  In  comforting  others,  you  have  been  com 
forted.  The  campaign  is  opening  in  Virginia ;  and  I  think 
it  would  be  a  good  and  wholesome  thing  for  me  to  be  at 
work  among  the  wounded.  If  I  can  save  one  life,  it  will  be 
such  a  comfort  after  the  war  is  over." 

"Yes,"  she  replied  softly;  "the  war  will  be  over  some 
day.  Albert,  in  his  last  letter,  said  the  war  would  cease,  and 
that  happy  days  of  peace  were  coming.  How  they  can 
ever  be  happy  days  to  some  I  scarcely  know  ;  but  he  seemed 
to  foresee  the  future  when  he  wrote." 

"  Helen,  I  'm  going.  Perhaps  the  days  of  peace  will 
be  a  little  happier  if  I  go." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  91 

CHAPTER  V. 

SECOND    BLOOM. 

TV  TARTINE  carried  out  his  purpose  almost  immediately^ 
*•  .       seeking  the  temporary  and  most  exposed  hospitals  on 
he  extreme  left  of  Grant's  army  before  Petersburg!!.    Indeed, 
vhile  battles  were  still  in  progress  he  would  make  his  way 
o  the  front  and    become    the   surgeon's  tireless   assistant. 
Vhile   thus   engaged,  even  under  the   enemy's  fire,  he  was 
\  able  to  render  services  to  Jim  Wetherby  which  probably 
saved  the  soldier's  life.     Jim  lost  his  right  arm,  but  found 
ii  nurse  who  did  not  let  him  want  for  anything  till  the  dan 
ger  point  following  amputation  had  passed.     Before  many 
weeks  he  was  safe   at  home,  and   from  him  Helen  learned 
more  of    Martine's    quiet    heroism    than  she    could    ever 
gather    from   his    letters.     In    Jim    Wetherby's   estimation 
i'Cap  and  Bart  Martine  were  the  two  heroes  of  the  war. 

The  latter  had  found  the  right  antidote.  Not  a  moment 
jwas  left  for  morbid  brooding.  On  every  side  were  sharp 
physical  distress,  deadly  peril  to  life  and  limb,  pathetic 
^efforts  to  hold  ground  against  diseases  or  sloughing  wounds. 
In  aiding  such  endeavor,  in  giving  moral  support  and  physi 
cal  care,  Martine  forgot  himself.  Helen's  letters  also  were 
an  increasing  inspiration.  He  could  scarcely  take  up  one  of 
them  and  say,  "  Here  her  words  begin  to  have  a  warmer 
tinge  of  feeling;"  but  as  spring  advanced,  imperceptibly 
yet  surely,  in  spite  of  pauses  and  apparent  retrogressions, 
just  so  surely  she  revealed  a  certain  warmth  of  sympathy. 
He  was  engaged  in  a  work  which  made  it  easy  for  her  to 
idealize  him.  His  unselfish  effort  to  help  men  live,  to  keep 


92  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

bitter  tears  from  the  eyes  of  their  relatives,  appealed  most 
powerfully  to  all  that  was  unselfish  in  her  nature,  and  she 
was  beginning  to  ask,  "  If  I  can  make  this  man  happier, 
why  should  I  not  do  so?"  Nichol's  letter  gained  a  new 
meaning  in  the  light  of  events  :  "  I  do  not  ask  you  to  for 
get  me,  —  that  would  be  worse  than  death,  —  but  I  ask  you 
to  try  to  be  happy  and  to  make  others  happy." 

"  A  noble,  generous  nature  prompted  those  words,"  she 
now  often  mused.  "  How  can  I  obey  their  spirit  better 
than  in  rewarding  the  man  who  not  only  has  done  so 
much  for  me,  but  also  at  every  cost  sought  to  rescue 
him?" 

In  this  growing  disposition  she  had  no  innate  repugnance 
to  overcome,  nor  the  shrinking  which  can  neither  be  defined 
nor  reasoned  against.  Accustomed  to  see  him  almost 
daily  from  childhood,  conscious  for  years  that  he  was  giv 
ing  her  a  love  that  was  virtually  homage,  she  found  her 
heart  growing  very  compassionate  and  ready  to  yield  the 
strong,  quiet  affection  which  she  believed  might  satisfy  him. 
This  had  come  about  through  no  effort  on  her  part,  from  no 
seeking  on  his,  but  was  the  result  of  circumstances,  the 
outgrowth  of  her  best  and  most  unselfish  feelings. 

But  the  effect  began  to  separate  itself  in  character  from 
its  causes.  All  that  had  gone  before  might  explain  why 
she  was  learning  to  love  him,  and  be  sufficient  reason  for 
this  affection,  but  a  woman's  love,  even  that  quiet  phase 
developing  in  Helen's  heart,  is  not  like  a  man's  conviction, 
for  which  he  can  give  his  clear-cut  reasons.  It  is  a  tender 
ness  for  its  object,  —  a  wish  to  serve  and  give  all  in  return 
for  what  it  receives. 

Marline  vaguely  felt  this  change  in  Helen  long  before  he 
understood  it.  He  saw  only  a  warmer  glow  of  sisterly  affec 
tion,  too  high  a  valuation  of  his  self-denying  work,  and  a  more 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  93 

generous  attempt  to  give  him  all  the  solace  and   support 
within  her  power. 

One  day  in  July,  when  the  war  was  well  over  and  the 
field  hospitals  long  since  broken  up,  he  wrote  from  Wash 
ington,  where  he  was  still  pursuing  his  labors,  — 

"  My  work  is  drawing  to  a  close.  Although  I  have  not  ac 
complished  a  tithe  of  what  I  wished  to  do,  and  have  seen  so 
much  left  undone,  I  am  glad  to  remember  that  I  have  alleviated 
much  pain  and,  I  think,  saved  some  lives.  Such  success  as  I 
have  had,  dear  Helen,  has  largely  been  due  to  you.  Your  let 
ters  have  been  like  manna.  You  do  not  know  —  it  would  be 
impossible  for  you  to  know  —  the  strength  they  have  given,  the 
inspiration  they  have  afforded.  I  am  naturally  very  weary  and 
worn  physically,  and  the  doctors  say  I  must  soon  have  rest ;  but 
your  kind  words  have  been  life-giving  to  my  soul.  I  turn  to 
them  from  day  to  day  as  one  would  seek  a  cool,  unfailing 
spring.  I  can  now  accept  life  gratefully  with  the  conditions 
which  cannot  be  changed.  How  fine  is  the  influence  of  a 
woman  like  you  !  What  deep  springs  of  action  it  touches  ! 
When  waiting  on  the  sick  and  wounded,  I  try  to  blend  your 
womanly  nature  with  my  coarser  fibre.  Truly  neither  of  us  has 
suffered  in  vain  it'  we  learn  better  to  minister  to  others.  I  can 
not  tell  you  how  I  long  to  see  the  home  gardens  again ;  and  it 
now  seems  that  just  to  watch  you  in  yours  will  be  unalloyed 
happiness." 

Helen  smiled  over  this  letter  with  sweet,  deep  meanings 
in  her  eyes. 

One  August  evening,  as  the  Kemble  family  sat  at  tea,  he 
gave  them  a  joyous  surprise  by  appearing  at  the  door  and 
asking  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  "  Can  you  put  an  extra 
plate  on  the  table?  " 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  gladness  of  her  welcome, 
for  it  was  as  genuine  as  the  bluff  heartiness  of  her  father 
and  the  gentle  solicitude  of  her  mother,  who  exclaimed, 
"  Oh,  Hobart,  how  thin  and  pale  you  are  ! " 


94  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

"  A  few  weeks'  rest  at  home  will  remedy  all  that,"  he 
said.  "  The  heat  in  Washington  was  more  trying  than  my 
work." 

"  Well,  thank  the  Lord  !  you  are  at  home  once  more," 
cried  the  banker.  "  I. was  thinking  of  drawing  on  the  au 
thorities  at  Washington  for  a  neighbor  who  had  been 
loaned  much  too  long." 

"  Helen,"  said  Martine,  with  pleased  eyes,  "  how  well 
you  look  !  It  is  a  perfect  delight  to  see  color  in  your 
cheeks  once  more.  They  are  gaining  too  their  old  lovely 
roundness.  I  'm  going  to  say  what  I  think  right  out,  for 
I  've  been  with  soldiers  so  long  that  I  've  acquired  their 
bluntness." 

"It's  that  garden  work  you  lured  me  into,"  she  ex 
plained.  "  I  hope  you  won't  think  your  plants  and  trees 
have  been  neglected." 

"  Have  you  been  keeping  my  pets  from  missing  me  ?  " 

"  I  guess  they  have  missed  you  least  of  all.  Helen  has 
seen  to  it  that  they  were  cared  for  first,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble, 
emphatically. 

"  You  did  n't  write  about  that ;  "  and  he  looked  at  the  girl 
gratefully. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  see  weeds  and  neglect  just  over 
the  fence?  "  she  asked  with  a  piquant  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  believe  that  you  cared  for  my 
garden  only  that  your  eyes  might  not  be  offended?" 

"  There,  I  only  wished  to  give  you  a  little  surprise.  You 
have  treated  us  to  one  by  walking  in  with  such  delightful 
unexpectedness,  and  so  should  understand.  I  '11  show  you 
when  you  are  through  supper." 

"I'm  through  now ; "  and  he  rose  with  a  promptness 
most  pleasing  to  her.  His  gladness  in  recognizing  old  and 
carefully-nurtured  friends,  his  keen,  appreciative  interest  in 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  95 

the  new  candidates  for  favor  that  she  had  planted,  rewarded 
her  abundantly. 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  a  heavenly  exchange  from  the 
close,  fetid  air  of  hospital  wards  !  Could  the  first  man  have 
been  more  content  in  his  divinely-planted  garden?  " 

She  looked  at  him  shyly  and  thought, "  Perhaps  when  you 
taste  of  the  fruit  of  knowledge,  the  old  story  will  have  a  new 
and  better  meaning." 

She  now  regarded  him  with  a  new  and  wistful  interest,  no 
longer  seeing  him  through  the  medium  of  friendship  only. 
His  face,  thin  and  spiritualized,  revealed  his  soul  without 
disguise.  It  was  the  countenance  of  one  who  had  won 
peace  through  the  divine  path  of  ministry,  —  healing  others, 
himself  had  been  healed.  She  saw  also  his  unchanged, 
steadfast  love  shining  like  a  gem  over  which  flows  a  crystal 
current.  Its  ray  was  as  serene  as  it  was  undimmed.  It 
had  taken  its  place  as  an  imperishable  quality  in  his  charac 
ter,  —  a  place  which  it  would  retain  without  vicissitude  un 
less  some  sign  from  her  called  it  into  immediate  and  strong 
manifestation.  She  was  in  no  haste  to  give  this.  Time  was 
touching  her  kindly ;  the  sharp,  cruel  outlines  of  the  past 
were  softening  in  the  distance,  and  she  was  content  to  re 
member  that  the  treasure  was  hers  when  she  was  ready  for 
it,  —  a  treasure  more  valued  daily. 

With  exultation  she  saw  him  honored  by  the  entire  com 
munity.  Few  days  passed  without  new  proofs  of  the  hold 
he  had  gained  on  the  deepest  and  best  feelings  of  the  peo 
ple.  She  who  once  had  pitied  now  looked  up  to  him  as 
the  possessor  of  that  manhood  which  the  most  faultless 
outward  semblance  can  only  suggest. 

Love  is  a  magician  at  whose  touch  the  plainest  features 
take  on  new  aspects.  Helen's  face  had  never  been  plain. 
Even  in  its  anguish  it  had  produced  in  beholders  the  pro- 


96  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

found  commiseration  which  is  more  readily  given  when 
beauty  is  sorrowful.  Now  that  a  new  life  at  heart  was  ex 
pressing  itself,  Martine,  as  well  as  others,  could  not  fail  to 
note  the  subtile  changes.  While  the  dewy  freshness  of  her 
girlish  bloom  was  absent,  the  higher  and  more  womanly 
qualities  were  now  revealing  themselves.  Her  nature  had 
been  deepened  by  her  experiences,  and  the  harmony  of  her 
life  was  all  the  sweeter  for  its  minor  chords. 

To  Martine  she  became  a  wonderful  mystery,  and  he  al 
most  worshipped  the  woman  whose  love  he  believed  buried 
in  an  unknown  grave,  but  whose  eyes  were  often  so  strangely 
kind.  He  resumed  his  old  life,  but  no  longer  brooded  at 
home,  when  the  autumn  winds  began  to  blow.  He  recog 
nized  the  old  danger  and  shunned  it  resolutely.  If  he  could 
not  beguile  his  thoughts  from  Helen,  it  was  but  a  step  to 
her  home,  and  her  eyes  always  shone  with  a  luminous  wel 
come.  Unless  detained  by  study  of  the  legal  points  of  some 
case  in  hand,  he  usually  found  his  way  over  to  the  Kemble 
fireside  before  the  evening  passed,  and  his  friends  encour 
aged  him  to  come  when  he  felt  like  it.  The  old  banker 
found  the  young  man  exceedingly  companionable,  especially 
in  his  power  to  discuss  intelligently  the  new  financial  condi 
tions  into  which  the  country  was  passing.  Helen  would 
smile  to  herself  as  she  watched  the  two  men  absorbed  in 
questions  she  little  understood,  and  observed  her  mother 
nodding  drowsily  over  her  knitting.  The  scene  was  so 
peaceful,  so  cheery,  so  hopeful  against  the  dark  background 
of  the  past,  that  she  could  not  refrain  from  gratitude.  Her 
heart  no  longer  ached  with  despairing  sorrow,  and  the  anx 
ious,  troubled  expression  had  faded  out  of  her  parents' 
faces. 

"  Yes,"  she  would  murmur  softly  to  herself,  "  Albert  was 
right ;  the  bloody  war  has  ceased,  and  the  happy  days  of 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  97 

peace  are  coming.  Heaven  has  blessed  him  and  made  his 
memory  doubly  blessed,  in  that  he  had  the  heart  to  wish 
them  to  be  happy,  although  he  could  not  live  to  see  them. 
Unconsciously  he  took  the  thorns  out  of  the  path  which  led 
to  his  friend  and  mine.  How  richly  father  enjoys  Hobart's 
companionship  !  He  will  be  scarcely  less  happy  —  when  he 
knows  —  than  yonder  friend,  who  is  such  a  very  scrupulous 
friend.  Indeed,  how  either  is  ever  going  to  know  I  scarcely 
see,  unless  I.  make  a  formal  statement." 

Suddenly  Martine  turned,  and  caught  sight  of  her 
expression. 

"  All  I  have  for  your  thoughts  !  What  would  n't  I  give 
to  know  them  !  " 

Her  face  became  rosier  than  the  firelight  warranted  as  she 
laughed  outright  and  shook  her  head. 

"  No  matter,"  he  said ;  "  I  am  content  to  hear  you  laugh 
like  that." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  added  the  banker  ;  "  Helen's  laugh  is  sweeter 
to  me  than  any  music  I  ever  heard.  Thank  God  !  we  all 
can  laugh  again.  I  am  getting  old,  and  in  the  course  of 
nature  must  soon  jog  on  to  the  better  country.  When  that 
time  comes,  the  only  music  I  want  to  hear  from  earth  is 
good,  honest  laughter." 

"  Now,  papa,  hush  that  talk  right  away,"  cried  Helen, 
with  glistening  eyes. 

"What 's  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Kemble  asked,  waking  up. 

"  Nothing,  my  dear,  only  it 's  time  for  us  old  people  to  go 
to  bed.", 

"  Well,  I  own  that  it  would  be  more  becoming  to  sleep 
there  than  to  reflect  so  unfavorably  on  your  conversation. 
Of  late  years  talk  about  money  matters  always  puts  me  to 
sleep." 

<•  That  was  n't  the  case,  was  it,  my  dear,  when  we  tried  to 


98  TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

stretch  a  thousand  so  it  would  reach  from  one  January  to 
another? " 

"  I  remember,"  she  replied,  smiling  and  rolling  up  her 
knitting,  "  that  we  sometimes  had  to  suspend  specie  pay 
ments.  Ah,  well,  we  were  happy." 

When  left  alone,  it  was  Helen's  turn  to  say,  "  Now  your 
thoughts  are  wool-gathering.  You  don't  see  the  fire  when 
you  look  at  it  that  way." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  replied  Martine.  "  I  '11  be  more 
frank  than  you.  Your  mother's  words,  '  We  were  happy,' 
left  an  echo  in  my  mind.  How  experience  varies  !  It  is 
pleasant  to  think  that  there  are  many  perfectly  normal, 
happy  lives  like  those  of  your  father  and  mother." 

"  That 's  one  thing  I  like  in  you,  Hobart.  You  are  so 
perfectly  willing  that  others  should  be  happy." 

"  Helen,  I  agree  with  your  father.  Your  laugh  was  music, 
the  sweetest  I  ever  heard.  I  'm  more  than  willing  that  you 
should  be  happy.  Why  should  you  not  be  ?  I  have  always 
felt  that  what  he  said  was  true,  —  what  he  said  about  the 
right  to  laugh  after  sorrow,  —  but  it  never  seemed  so  true 
before.  Who  could  wish  to  leave  blighting  sorrow  after 
him?  Who  could  sing  in  heaven  if  he  knew  that  he  had 
left  tears  which  could  not  be  dried  on  earth?" 

"  You  could  n't,"  she  replied  with  bowed  head. 

"  Nor  you,  either  ;  nor  the  brave  man  who  died,  to  whom 
I  only  do  justice  in  believing  that  he  would  only  be  happier 
could  he  hear  your  laugh.  Your  father's  wholesome,  hearty 
nature  should  teach  us  to  banish  every  morbid  tendency. 
Let  your  heart  grow  as  light  as  it  will,  my  friend.  Your 
natural  impulses  will  not  lead  you  astray.  Good-night." 

"You  feel  sure  of  that?"  she  asked,  giving  him  a  hand 
that  fluttered  in  his,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  soft  fire  in 
her  eyes. 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  99 

"  Oh,  Helen,  how  distractingly  beautiful  you  are  !  You 
are  blooming  again  like  your  Jack-roses  when  the  second 
growth  pushes  them  into  flower.  There  ;  I  must  go.  If 
I  had  a  stone  in  my  breast  instead  of  a  heart —  Good 
night.  I  won't  be  weak  again." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MORE   THAN    REWARD. 

T  T  ELEN  KEMBLE'S  character  was  simple  and  direct. 
She  was  one  who  lived  vividly  in  the  passing  hour, 
and  had  a  greater  capacity  for  deep  emotions  than  for  re 
taining  them.  The  reputation  for  constancy  is  sometimes 
won  by  those  incapable  of  strong  convictions.  A  scratch 
upon  a  rock  remains  in  all  its  sharpness,  while  the  furrow 
that  has  gone  deep  into  the  heart  of  a  field  is  eventually 
almost  hidden  by  a  new  flowering  growth.  The  truth  was 
fully  exemplified  in  Helen's  case ;  and  a  willingness  to 
marry  her  lifelong  lover,  prompted  at  first  by  a  spirit  of 
self-sacrifice,  had  become,  under  the  influence  of  daily 
companionship,  more  than  mere  assent.  While  gratitude 
and  the  wish  to  see  the  light  of  a  great,  unexpected  joy 
come  into  his  eyes  remained  her  chief  motives,  she  had 
learned  that  she  could  attain  a  happiness  herself,  not  hoped 
for  once,  in  making  him  happy. 

He  was  true  to  his  word,  after  the  interview  described  in 
the  preceding  chapter.  He  did  not  consciously  reveal  the 
unappeased  hunger  of  his  heart,  but  her  intuition  was  never 
at  fault  a  moment. 

One   Indian-summer-like   morning,  about  the   middle   of 


IOO          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  SrFORIES. 

October,  he  went  over  to  her  home  and  said,  "  Helen, 
what  do  you  say  to  a  long  day's  outing?  The  foliage  is  at 
its  brightest,  the  air  soft  as  that  of  June.  Why  not  store 
up  a  lot  of  this  sunshine  for  winter  use?" 

"Yes,  Helen,  go,"  urged  her  mother.  "  I  can  attend  to 
everything." 

"  A  long  day,  did  you  stipulate?  "  said  the  girl,  in  ready 
assent ;  "  that  means  we  should  take  a  lunch.  I  don't 
believe  you  ever  thought  of  that." 

"  We  could  crack  nuts,  rob  apple-orchards,  or  if  driven 
to  extremity,  raid  a  farm-house." 

"  You  have  heard  too  much  from  the  soldiers  about 
living  off  the  country.  I  'd  rather  raid  mamma's  cupboard 
before  we  start.  I  '11  be  ready  as  soon  as  you  are." 

He  soon  appeared  in  his  low,  easy  phaeton ;  and  she 
joined  him  with  the  presentiment  that  there  might  be  even 
greater  gladness  in  his  face  by  evening  than  it  now  ex 
pressed.  While  on  the  way  to  the  brow  of  a  distant  hill 
which  would  be  their  lunching  place,  they  either  talked  with 
the  freedom  of  old  friends  or  lapsed  into  long  silences. 

At  last  he  asked,  "  Is  n't  it  a  little  odd  that  when  with 
you  the  sense  of  companionship  is  just  as  strong  when 
you  are  not  talking?" 

"  It 's  a  comfort  you  are  so  easily  entertained.  Don't 
you  think  I  'm  a  rather  moderate  talker  for  a  woman?  " 

"  Those  that  talk  the  most  are  often  least  entertaining. 
I  've  thought  a  good  deal  about  it,  —  the  unconscious  in 
fluence  of  people  on  one  another.  I  don't  mean  influence 
in  any  moral  sense,  but  in  the  power  to  make  one  comfort 
able  or  uncomfortable,  and  to  produce  a  sense  of  restful- 
ness  and  content  or  to  make  one  ill  at  ease  and  nervously 
desirous  of  escape." 

"  And  you  have  actually  no  nervous  desire  to  escape,  no 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  IOI 

castings  around  in  your  mind  for  an  excuse  to  turn  around 
land  drive  home  ?  " 

"  No  one  could  give  a  surer  answer  to  your  question  than 
yourself.  I  Ve  been  thinking  of  something  pleasanter  than 
imy  enjoyment." 

"Well?" 

"  That  your  expression  has  been  a  very  contented  one 
during  the  last  hour.  I  am  coming  to  believe  that  you  can 
accept  my  friendship  without  effort.  You  women  are  all 
}  guch  mysteries  !  One  gets  hold  of  a  clew  now  and  then. 
I  have  fancied  that  if  you  had  started  out  in  the  spirit  of 
I  self-sacrifice  that  I  might  have  a  pleasant  time,  you  would 
be  more  conscious  of  your  purpose.  Even  your  tact  might 
not  have  kept  me  from  seeing  that  you  were  exerting 
yourself;  but  the  very  genius  of  the  day  seems  to  possess 
you.  Nature  is  not  exerting  herself  in  the  least.  No 
breath  of  air  is  stirring ;  all  storms  are  in  the  past  or  the 
future.  With  a  smile  on  her  face,  she  is  just  resting  in 
serene  content,  as  you  were,  I  hope.  She  is  softening  and 
obscuring  everything  distant  by  an  orange  haze,  so  that  the 
sunny  present  may  be  all  the  more  real.  Days  like  these 
will  do  you  good,  especially  if  your  face  and  manner  reveal 
that  you  can  be  as  truly  at  rest  as  Nature." 

"  Yet  what  changes  may  soon  pass  over  the  placid 
scene  !  " 

"  Yes,  but  don't  think  of  them." 

"  Well,  I  won't  —  not  now.  Yes,  you  are  becoming 
very  penetrating.  I  am  not  exerting  myself  in  the  least  to 
give  you  a  pleasant  time.  I  am  just  selfishly  and  lazily 
content." 

"  That  fact  gives  me  so  much  more  than  content  that  it 
makes  me  happy." 

"  Hobart,  you  are  the  most  unselfish  man  I  ever  knew." 


IO2          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Nonsense  !  " 

They  had  reached  their  picnic-ground,  —  the  edge  of  a 
grove  whose  bright-hued  foliage  still  afforded  a  grateful 
shade.  The  horse  was  unharnessed  and  picketed  so  that 
he  might  have  a  long  range  for  grazing.  Then  Martine 
brought  the  provision  basket  to  the  foot  of  a  great  oak,  and 
sat  down  to  wait  for  Helen,  who  had  wandered  away  in 
search  of  wild  flowers.  At  last  she  came  with  a  handful  of 
late-blooming  closed  gentians. 

"  I  thought  these  would  make  an  agreeable  feature  in 
your  lunch." 

"  Oh,  you  are  beginning  to  exert  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  have  concluded  to,  a  little.  So  must  you,  to 
the  extent  of  making  a  fire.  The  rest  will  be  woman's 
work.  I  propose  to  drink  your  health  in  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"  Ah,  this  is  unalloyed,"  he  cried,  sipping  it  later  on. 

"The  coffee?" 

"  Yes,  and  everything.  We  don't  foresee  the  bright  days 
any  more  than  the  dark  ones.  I  did  not  dream  of  this  in 
Virginia." 

"You  are  easily  satisfied.  The  coffee  is  smoky,  the 
lunch  is  cold,  winter  is  coming,  and  —  " 

"And  I  am  very  happy,"  he  said. 

"  It  would  be  a  pity  to  disturb  your  serenity." 

"  Nothing  shall  disturb  it  to-day.  Peace  is  one  of  the 
rarest  experiences  in  this  world.  I  mean  only  to  remember 
that  our  armies  are  disbanded  and  that  you  are  at  rest,  like 
Nature." 

She  had  brought  a  little  book  of  autumn  poems,  and 
after  lunch  read  to  him  for  an  hour,  he  listening  with  the 
same  expression  of  quiet  satisfaction.  As  the  day  declined, 
she  shivered  slightly  in  the  shade.  He  immediately  arose 
and  put  a  shawl  around  her. 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  103 

"  You  are  always  shielding  me,"  she  said  gently. 

"  One  can  do  so  little  of  that  kind  of  thing,"  he  replied, 
"  not  much  more  than  show  intent." 

"  Now  you  do  yourself  injustice."  After  a  moment's 
hesitancy  she  added,  "  I  am  not  quite  in  your  mood  to-day, 
and  even  Nature,  as  your  ally,  cannot  make  me  forget  or 
even  wish  to  forget." 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  forget,  but  merely  cease  to  remem 
ber  for  a  little  while.  You  say  Nature  is  my  ally.  Listen  : 
already  the  wind  is  beginning  to  sigh  in  the  branches  over 
head.  The  sound  is  low  and  mournful,  as  if  full  of  regret 
for  the  past  and  forebodings  for  the  future.  There  is  a 
change  coming.  All  that  I  wished  or  could  expect  in  you 
was  that  this  serene,  quiet  day  would  give  you  a  respite,  — 
that  complete  repose  in  which  the  wounded  spirit  is  more 
rapidly  healed  and  strengthened  for  the  future." 

"  Have  you  been  strengthened?  Have  you  no  fears  for 
the  future?  " 

"Xo  fears,  Helen.  My  life  is  strong  in  its  negation. 
The  man  who  is  agitated  by  hopes  and  fears,  who  is  doomed 
to  disappointments,  is  the  one  who  has  not  recognized  his 
limitations,  who  has  not  accepted  well-defined  conditions." 

"  Hobart,  I  'm  going  to  put  you  on  your  honor  now. 
Remember,  and  do  not  answer  hastily,"  and  her  gaze 
into  his  face  was  searching.  Although  quiet  and  per 
fectly  self-controlled,  the  rich  color  mounted  to  her  very 
brow. 

"  Well,  Helen,"  he  asked  wonderingly. 

"  Imagine  it  possible,"  she  continued  with  the  same  earn 
est  gaze,  "  that  you  were  a  woman  who  has  loved  as  I  have 
loved,  and  lost  as  I  have.  The  circumstances  are  all  known, 
and  you  have  only  to  recall  them.  If  a  man  had  loved  you 
as  you  have  loved  me  —  " 


104         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  But,  Helen,  can  you  not  believe  in  a  love  so  strong  that 
it  does  not  ask  — 

By  a  gesture  she  checked  him  and  repeated,  "  But  if  a 
man  had  loved  you  as  you  have  loved  me,  —  remember 
now,  on  your  honor,  —  would  you  permit  him  to  love  with 
no  better  reward  than  the  consciousness  of  being  a  solace, 
a  help,  a  sort  of  buffer  between  you  and  the  ills  of  life?  " 

"  But,  Helen,  I  am  more  than  that ;  I  am  your  friend." 

"  Indeed  you  are,  the  best  a  woman  ever  had,  or  I  could 
not  speak  as  I  am  doing.  Yet  what  I  say  is  true.  From 
the  first  it  has  been  your  sleepless  aim  to  stand  between  me 
and  trouble.  What  have  I  ever  done  for  you?  " 

"  In  giving  me  your  friendship  — 

Again  she  interrupted  him,  saying,  "  That  virtually  means 
giving  you  the  chance  for  continued  self-sacrifice.  Any  man 
or  woman  in  the  land  would  give  you  friendship  on  such 
terms,  your  terms  with  me.  But  you  do  not  answer  my 
question ;  yet  you  have  answered  it  over  and  over  again. 
Were  you  in  my  place  with  your  unselfish  nature,  you  could 
not  take  so  very  much  without  an  inevitable  longing  to  return 
all  in  your  power." 

He  was  deeply  agitated.  Burying  his  face  in  his  hands, 
he  said  hoarsely,  "  I  must  not  look  at  you,  or  my  duty  may 
be  too  hard.  Ah,  you  are  banishing  peace  and  serenity  now 
with  a  vengeance  !  I  recognize  your  motive,  —  whither  your 
thoughts. 'are  tending.  Your  conscience,  your  pity,  your 
exaggerated  gratitude  are  driving  you  to  contemplate  a  self- 
sacrifice  compared  with  which  mine  is  as  nothing.  Yet  the 
possibility  of  what  you  suggest  is  so  sweet,  so  —  oh,  it  is 
like  the  reward  of  heaven  for  a  brief  life  !  "  Then  he  bowed 
his  head  lower  and  added  slowly,  as  if  the  words  were  forced 
from  him,  "  No,  Helen,  you  shall  not  reward  me.  I  cannot 
take  as  pay,  or  '  return,'  as  you  express  it,  the  reward  that 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  105 

you  arc  meditating.  I  must  not  remember  in  after  years 
that  my  efforts  in  your  behalf  piled  up  such  a  burdensome 
sense  of  obligation  that  there  was  but  one  escape  from  it." 

She  came  to  his  side,  and  removing  his  hands  from  his 
face,  retained  one  of  them  as  she  said  gently,  "  Hobart,  I 
am  no  longer  a  shy  girl.  I  have  suffered  too  deeply,  I  have 
learned  too  thoroughly  how  life  may  be  robbed  of  happi 
ness,  and  for  a  time,  almost  of  hope,  not  to  see  the  folly  of 
letting  the  years  slip  away,  unproductive  of  half  what  they 
might  yield  to  you  and  me.  I  understand  you  ;  you  do  not 
understand  me,  probably  because  your  ideal  is  too  high. 
You  employed  an  illustration  in  the  narrowest  meaning.  Is 
heaven  given  only  as  a  reward  ?  Is  not  every  true  gift  an  ex 
pression  of  something  back  of  the  gift,  more  than  the  gift?  " 

"  Helen  !  " 

"  Yes,  Hobart,  in  my  wish  to  make  you  happier  I  am  not 
bent  on  unredeemed  self-sacrifice.  You  have  been  the  most 
skilful  of  wooers." 

"  And  you  are  the  divinest  of  mysteries.  How  have  I 
wooed  you?  " 

"  By  not  wooing  at  all,  by  taking  a  course  which  com 
pelled  my  heart  to  plead  your  cause,  by  giving  unselfish  de 
votion  so  unstintedly  that  like  the  rain  and  dew  of  heaven, 
it  has  fostered  a  new  life  in  my  heart,  different  from  the  old, 
yet  sweet,  real,  and  precious.  I  have  learned  that  I  can  be 
happier  in  making  you  happy.  Oh,  I  shall  be  no-  martyr. 
Am  I  inconstant  because  time  and  your  ministry  have  healed 
the ,  old  wound,  —  because  the  steady  warmth  and  glow  of 
your  love  has  kindled  mine?  " 

He  regarded  her  with  a  gaze  so  rapt,  so  reverent,  so  ex 
pressive  of  immeasurable  gratitude  that  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "I  think  you  do  understand  me,"  she  whispered. 

He  kissed   her  hand   in  homage  as  he  replied,  "A  joy 


106         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

like  this  is  almost  as  hard  to  comprehend  at  first  as  an 
equally  great  sorrow.  My  garden  teaches  me  to  understand 
you.  A  perfect  flower-stalk  is  suddenly  and  rudely  broken. 
Instead  of  dying,  it  eventually  sends  out  a  little  side-shoot 
which  gives  what  bloom  it  can." 

"  And  you  will  be  content  with  what  it  can  give?  " 

"  I  shall  be  glad  with  a  happiness  which  almost  terrifies 
me.  Only  God  knows  how  I  have  longed  for  this." 

That  evening  the  old  banker  scarcely  ceased  rubbing  his 
hands  in  general  felicitation,  while  practical,  housewifely 
Mrs.  Kemble  already  began  to  plan  what  she  intended  to 
do  toward  establishing  Helen  in  the  adjoining  cottage. 

Now  that  Martine  believed  his  great  happiness  possible, 
he  was  eager  for  its  consummation.  At  his  request  the  ist 
of  December  was  named  as  the  wedding  day.  "  The  best 
that  a  fireside  and  evening  lamp  ever  suggested  will  then 
come  true  to  me,"  he  urged.  "  Since  this  can  be,  life  is  too 
short  that  it  should  not  be  soon." 

Helen  readily  yielded.  Indeed,  they  were  all  so  absorbed 
in  planning  for  his  happiness  as  to  be  oblivious  of  the  rising 
storm.  When  at  last  the  girl  went  to  her  room,  the  wind 
sighed  and  wailed  so  mournfully  around  the  house  as  to  pro 
duce  a  feeling  of  depression  and  foreboding. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

YANKEE    BLANK. 


'^PHE  wild  night  storm  which  followed  the  most  memora 
ble  day  of  his  life  had  no  power  to  depress  Martine. 
In  the  wavy  flames  and  glowing  coals  of  his  open  fire  he 
saw  heavenly  pictures  of  the  future.     He  drew  his  mother's 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  \ 07 

low  chair  to  the  hearth,  and  his  kindled  fancy  placed  Helen 
in  it.  Memory  could  so  reproduce  her  lovely  and  familiar 
features  that  her  presence  became  almost  a  reality.  In  a 
sense  he  watched  her  changing  expression  and  heard  her 
low,  mellow  tones.  The  truth  that  both  would  express  an 
affection  akin  to  his  own  grew  upon  his  consciousness  like 
the  incoming  of  a  sun-lighted  tide.  The  darkness  and 
storm  without  became  only  the  background  of  his  pictures, 
enhancing  every  prophetic  representation.  The  night  passed 
in  ecstatic  waking  dreams  of  all  that  the  word  '•  home  " 
suggests  when  a  woman,  loved  as  he  loved  Helen,  was  its 
architect. 

The  days  and  weeks  which  followed  were  filled  with  a 
divine  enchantment ;  the  prosaic  world  was  transfigured ; 
the  intricacies  of  the  law  were  luminous  with  the  sheen  of 
gold,  becoming  the  quartz  veins  from  which  he  would  mine 
wealth  for  Helen  ;  the  plants  in  his  little  rose-house  were 
cared  for  with  caressing  tenderness  because  they  gave  buds 
which  would  be  worn  over  the  heart  now  throbbing  for  him. 
Never  did  mortal  know  such  unalloyed  happiness  as  blessed 
Martine,  as  he  became  daily  more  convinced  that  Helen 
was  not  giving  herself  to  him  merely  from  the  promptings 
of  compassion. 

At  times,  when  she  did  not  know  he  was  listening,  he 
heard  her  low,  sweet  laugh  ;  and  it  had  a  joyous  ring  and 
melody  which  repeated  itself  like  a  haunting  refrain  of 
music.  He  would  say  smilingly,  "  It  is  circumstantial  evi 
dence,  equivalent  to  direct  proof." 

Helen  and  her  mother  almost  took  possession  of  his  house 
while  he  was  absent  at  his  office,  refurnishing  and  transform 
ing  it,  yet  retaining  with  reverent  memory  what  was  essen 
tially  associated  with  Mrs.  Martine.  The  changing  aspects 
of  the  house  did  not  banish  the  old  sense  of  familiarity,  but 


108         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

were  rather  like  the  apple-tree  in  the  corner  of  the  garden 
when  budding  into  new  foliage  and  flower.  The  banker's 
purse  was  ever  open  for  all  this  renovation,  but  Martine 
jealously  persisted  in  his  resolve  to  meet  every  expense  him 
self.  Witnessing  his  gladness  and  satisfaction,  they  let  him 
have  his  way,  he  meanwhile  exulting  over  Helen's  absorbed 
interest  in  the  adornment  of  her  future  home. 

The  entire  village  had  a  friendly  concern  in  the  approach 
ing  wedding  ;  and  the  aged  gossips  never  tired  of  saying,  "  I 
told  you  so,"  believing  that  they  understood  precisely  how 
it  had  all  come  about.  Even  Mrs.  Nichol  acquiesced  with 
a  few  deep  sighs,  assuring  herself,  "  I  suppose  it 's  natural. 
I  'd  rather  it  was  Bart  Martine  than  anybody  else." 

A  few  days  before  the  ist  of  December,  Martine  received 
a  telegram  from  an  aged  uncle  residing  in  a  distant  State. 
It  conveyed  a  request  hard  to  comply  with,  yet  he  did  not 
see  how  it  could  be  evaded.  The  despatch  was  delivered 
in  the  evening  while  he  was  at  the  Kembles',  and  its  effect 
upon  the  little  group  was  like  a  bolt  out  of  a  clear  sky.  It 
ran :  — 

"Your  cousin  dangerously  ill  at Hospital,  Washington. 

Go  to  him  at  once,  if  possible,  and  telegraph  me  to  come,  if 
necessary." 

Hobart  explained  that  this  cousin  had  remained  in  the 
army  from  choice,  and  that  his  father,  old  and  feeble,  nat 
urally  shrank  from  a  journey  to  which  he  was  scarcely  equal. 
"My  hospital  experience,"  he  concluded,  "leads  him  to 
think  that  I  am  just  the  one  to  go,  especially  as  I  can  get 
there  much  sooner  than  he.  I  suppose  he  is  right.  In 
deed,  I  do  not  know  of  any  one  else  whom  he  could  call 
upon.  It  certainly  is  a  very  painful  duty  at  this  time." 

"  I  can't  endure  to  think  of  it,"  Helen  exclaimed. 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  109 

"  It 's  a  clear  question  of  conscience,  Helen,"  he  replied 
gently.  "  Many  years  have  passed  since  I  saw  this  cousin, 
yet  he,  and  still  more  strongly  his  father,  have  the  claims  of 
kinship.  If  anything  should  happen  which  my  presence 
could  avert,  you  know  we  should  both  feel  bad.  It  would 
be  a  cloud  upon  our  happiness.  If  this  request  had  come 
before  you  had  changed  everything  for  me,  you  know  I 
would  have  gone  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  Very 
gratitude  should  make  me  more  ready  for  duty ;  "  yet  he 
sighed  deeply. 

"  But  it  may  delay  the  wedding,  for  which  the  invitations 
have  gone  out,"  protested  Mrs.  Kemble. 

"  Possibly  it  may,  if  my  cousin's  life  is  in  danger."  Then, 
brightening  up,  he  added,  "  Perhaps  I  shall  find  that  I  can 
leave  him  in  good  care  for  a  short  time,  and  then  we  can 
go  to  Washington  on  our  wedding  trip.  I  would  like  to 
gain  associations  with  that  city  different  from  those  I  now 
have." 

"  Come  now,"  said  the  banker,  hopefully,  "  if  we  must 
face  this  thing,  we  must.  The  probabilities  are  that  it  will 
turn  out  as  Hobart  says.  At  worst  it  can  only  be  a  sad  in 
terruption  and  episode.  Hobart  will  be  better  satisfied  in 
the  end  if  he  does  what  he  now  thinks  his  duty." 

"Yours  is  the  right  view,"  assented  the  young  man,  firmly. 
"  I  shall  take  the  midnight  train,  and  telegraph  as  soon  as  I 
have  seen  my  cousin  and  the  hospital  surgeon." 

He  went  home  and  hastily  made  his  preparations ;  then, 
with  valise  in  hand,  returned  to  the  Kembles'.  The  old 
people  bade  him  God-speed  on  his  journey,  and  consid 
erately  left  him  with  his  affianced. 

.  "  Hobart,"  Helen  entreated,  as  they  were  parting,  "  be 
more  than  ordinarily  prudent.  Do  not  take  any  risks,  even 
the  most  trivial,  unless  you  feel  you  must.  Perhaps  I  'm 


110         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

weak  and  foolish,  but  I  'm  possessed  with  a  strange,  nervous 
dread.  This  sudden  call  of  duty  —  for  so  I  suppose  I  must 
look  upon  it  —  seems  so  inopportune ;  "  and  she  hid  her 
tears  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  are  taking  it  much  too  seriously,  darling,"  he  said, 
gently  drawing  her  closer  to  him. 

"  Yes,  my  reason  tells  me  that  I  am.  You  are  only  going 
on  a  brief  journey,  facing  nothing  that  can  be  called  danger. 
Yet  I  speak  as  I  feel  —  I  cannot  help  feeling.  Give  me 
glad  reassurance  by  returning  quickly  and  safely.  Then 
hereafter  I  will  laugh  at  forebodings." 

"  There,  you  need  not  wait  till  I  reach  Washington.  You 
shall  hear  from  me  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  also  telegraph 
when  I  have  opportunity  on  my  journey." 

"  Please  do  so,  and  remember  that  I  could  not  endure  to 
have  my  life  impoverished  again." 

Late  the  following  evening,  Martine  inquired  his  way  to 
the  bedside  of  his  cousin,  and  was  glad  indeed  to  find  him 
convalescent.  His  own  experienced  eyes,  together  with  the 
statement  of  the  sick  man  and  wardmaster,  convinced  him 
that  the  danger  point  was  well  passed.  In  immense  relief 
of  mind  he  said  cheerily,  "  I  will  watch  to-night ;  "  and  so 
it  was  arranged. 

His  cousin,  soothed  and  hushed  in  his  desire  to  talk, 
soon  dropped  into  quiet  slumber,  while  Martine's  thronging 
thoughts  banished  the  sense  of  drowsiness.  A  shaded  lamp 
burned  near,  making  a  circle  of  light  and  leaving  the  rest  of 
the  ward  dim  and  shadowy.  The  scene  was  very  familiar, 
and  it  was  an  easy  effort  for  his  imagination  to  place  in 
the  adjoining  cots  the  patients  with  whom,  months  before, 
he  had  fought  the  winning  or  losing  battle  of  life.  While 
memory  sometimes  went  back  compassionately  to  those  suf 
ferers,  his  thoughts  dwelt  chiefly  upon  the  near  future,  with 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  HI 

its  certainty  of  happiness,  —  a  happiness  doubly  appreciated 
because  his  renewed  experience  in  the  old  conditions  of  his 
life  made  the  home  which  awaited  him  all  the  sweeter  from 
contrast.  He  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  was  the  same 
man  who  in  places  like  this  had  sought  to  forget  the  pain 
of  bereavement  and  of  denial  of  his  dearest  wish,  —  he  who 
in  the  morning  would  telegraph  Helen  that  the  wedding 
need  not  even  be  postponed,  nor  any  change  made  in  their 
plans. 

The  hours  were  passing  almost  unnoted,  when  a  patient  be 
yond  the  circle  of  light  feebly  called  for  water.  Almost  me 
chanically  Hobart  rose  to  get  it,  when  a  man  wearing 
carpet  slippers  and  an  old  dressing-gown  shuffled  noise 
lessly  into  view. 

"  Captain  Nichol !  "  gasped  Marline,  sinking  back,  faint 
and  trembling,  in  his  chair. 

The  man  paid  no  attention,  but  passed  through  the 
circle  of  light  to  the  patient,  gave  him  a  drink,  and  turned. 
Marline  stared  with  the  paralysis  of  one  looking  upon  an 
apparition. 

When  the  figure  was  opposile  to  him,  he  again  ejaculated 
hoarsely,  "  Captain  Nichol  !  " 

The  form  in  slippers  and  gray  ghoslly  dressing-gown 
turned  sleepy  eyes  upon  him  without  the  slightest  sign  of 
recognition,  passed  on,  and  disappeared  among  the  shad 
ows  near  the  wardmaster's  room. 

A  blending  of  relief  and  fearful  doubt  agitated  Martine. 
He  knew  he  had  been  wide  awake  and  in  the  possession 
of  every  faculty,  —  that  his  imagination  had  been  playing 
him  no  tricks.  He  was  not  even  thinking  of  Nichol  at  the 
time ;  yet  the  impression  that  he  had  looked  upon  and 
spoken  to  his  old  schoolmate,  to  Helen's  dead  lover,  had 
been  as  strong  as  it  was  instantaneous.  When  the  man 


112         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

had  turned,  there  had  been  an  unnatural  expression,  which 
in  a  measure  dispelled  the  illusion.  After  a  moment  of 
thought  which  scorched  his  brain,  he  rose  and  followed  the 
man's  steps,  and  was  in  time  to  see  him  rolling  himself  in 
his  blanket  on  the  cot  nearest  the  door.  From  violent 
agitation,  Marline  unconsciously  shook  the  figure  outlined 
in  the  blanket  roughly,  as  he  asked,  "What's  your  name?" 

"  Yankee  Blank,  doggone  yer  !  Kyant  you  wake  a  feller 
'thout  yankin'  'im  out  o'  baid?  What  yer  want?" 

"Great  God!"  muttered  Hobart,  tottering  back  to  his 
seat  beside  his  sleeping  cousin,  "was  there  ever  such  a 
horrible,  mocking  suggestion  of  one  man  in  another? 
Yankee  Blank  —  what  a  name  !  Southern  accent  and 
vernacular,  yet  Nichol's  voice  !  Such  similarity  combined 
with  such  dissimilarity  is  like  a  nightmare.  Of  course  it  "s 
not  Nichol.  He  was  killed  nearly  two  years  ago.  I  'd  be 
more  than  human  if  I  could  wish  him  back  now ;  but 
never  in  my  life  have  I  been  so  shocked  and  startled.  This 
apparition  must  account  for  itself  in  the  morning." 

But  he  could  not  wait  till  morning ;  he  could  not  control 
himself  five  minutes.  He  felt  that  he  must  banish  that 
horrible  semblance  of  Nichol  from  his  mind  by  convincing 
himself  of  its  absurdity. 

He  waited  a  few  moments  in  order  to  compose  his 
nerves,  and  then  returned.  The  man  had  evidently  gone 
to  sleep. 

"What  a  fool  I  am  !  "  Martine  again  muttered,  "Let 
the  poor  fellow  sleep.  The  fact  that  he  does  n't  know  me 
is  proof  enough.  The  idea  of  wanting  any  proof !  I  can 
investigate  his  case  in  the  morning,  and,  no  doubt,  in  broad 
light  that  astonishing  suggestion  of  Nichol  will  disappear." 

He  was  about  to  turn  away  when  the  patient  who  had 
called  for  water  groaned  slightly.  As  if  his  ears  were  as 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  113 

sensitive  to  such  sounds  as  those  of  a  mother  who  hears 
her  child  even  when  it  stirs,  the  man  arose.  Seeing  Marline 
standing  by  him,  he  asked  in  slight  irritation,  "  What  yer 
want  ?  Why  kyant  yer  say  what  yer  want  en  have  done 
'th  it  ?  Lemme  'tend  ter  that  feller  yander  firs'.  We  uns 
don't  want  no  mo'  stiffs ;  "  and  he  shuffled  with  a  peculiar, 
noiseless  tread  to  the  patient  whose  case  seemed  on  his 
mind.  Marline  followed,  his  very  hair  rising  at  the  well- 
remembered  tones  and  the  mysterious  principle  of  identity 
again  revealed  wilhin  the  circle  of  light. 

"  This  is  simply  horrible  !  "  he  groaned  inwardly,  "  and 
I  must  have  thai  man  accounl  for  himself  instantly." 

"  Now  I  '11  'tend  ter  yer,  but  yer  mout  lei  a  feller  sleep 
when  he  kin." 

"  Don'l  you  know  me?"  fallered  Marline,  overpowered. 

"  Naw." 

"  Please  tell  me  your  real  name,  not  your  nickname." 

"  Ain'  got  no  name  'cept  Yankee  Blank.  What 's  the 
matter  with  yer,  anyhow?  " 

"  Did  n't  you  ever  hear  of  Captain  Nichol?  " 

"  Reckon  not.  Mout  have.  I  Ve  missed  mo'  cap'ins 
than  I  kin  reckerlect." 

"Are   you  a  hospital  nurse?" 

"  Sorter  'sped  I  am.  Thai 's  what  I  does,  anyhow. 
Have  you  anything  agin  it?  Don't  yer  come  'ferin'  round 
with  me  less  yer  a  doctor,  astin'  no  end  o'  questions.  Air 
you  a  new  doctor?" 

"  My  name  is  Hobarl  Marline,"  the  speaker  forced  him 
self  to  say,  expecting  fearfully  a  sign  of  recognition,  for 
the  impression  thai  il  was  Nichol  grew  upon  him  every 
moment,  in  spite  of  apparent  proof  to  the  conlrary. 

"  Hump  !  Hob'l  Ma'tine.  Never  yeared  on  yer.  Ef 
yer  want  ter  chin  mo'  in  the  mawnin',  I  '11  be  yere." 

8 


114         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Yan  —  " 

"  Yankee  Blank,  I  tole  yer." 

"  Well,  here  's  a  dollar  for  the  trouble  I  'm  making  you," 
and  Marline's  face  flushed  with  shame  at  the  act,  so  divided 
was  his  impression  about  the  man. 

Yankee  Blank  took  the  money  readily,  grinned,  and  said, 
"  Now  I  '11  chin  till  mawnin'  ef  yer  wants  hit." 

"I  won't  keep  you  long.  You  remind  me  of — of  — 
well,  of  Captain  Nichol." 

"  He  must  'a'  been  a  cur'ous  chap.  Folks  all  say  I  'm  a 
cur'ous  chap." 

"  Won't  you  please  tell  me  all  that  you  can  remember 
about  yourself  ?  " 

" 'T  ain't  much.  Short  hoss  soon  curried.  Allus  ben  in 
hospitals.  Had  high  ole  jinks  with  a  wound  on  my  haid. 
Piece  o'  shell,  they  sez,  cut  me  yere,"  and  he  pointed  to 
a  scar  across  his  forehead.  "  That 's  what  they  tole  me. 
Lor'  !  I  could  n't  mek  much  out  o'  the  gibberish  I  firs' 
year,  en  they  sez  I  talked  gibberish  too.  But  I  soon  got 
the  hang  o'  the  talk  in  the  hospital.  Well,  ez  I  wuz  sayin', 
I  've  allus  been  in  hospitals,  firs'  one,  then  anuther.  I  got 
well,  en  the  sojers  call  me  Yankee  Blank  en  set  me  waitin' 
on  sick  uns  en  the  wounded.  That 's  what  I  'm  a-doin' 
now." 

"You  were  in  Southern  hospitals?  " 

"  I  reckon.     They  called  the  place  Richman." 

"  Why  did  you  come  here?  " 

"  Kaze  I  wuz  bro't  yere.     They  said  I  was  'changed." 

"  Exchanged,  was  n't  it?  " 

"  Reckon  it  was.  Anyhow  I  wuz  bro't  yere  with  a  lot 
o'  sick  fellers.  I  wuz  n't  sick.  For  a  long  time  the  doctors 
kep'  a-pesterin'  me  with  questions,  but  they  lemme  'lone 
now.  I  'spected  you  wuz  a  new  doctor,  en  at  it  agin." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  115 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  village  of  Alton    " 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Don't  you  —  "  and  Marline's  voice  grew  husky  —  "  don't 
you  remember  Helen  Kemble?" 

"A  woman?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Never  yeared  on  her.  I  only  reckerlect  people  I  Ve 
seen  in  hospitals.  Women  come  foolin'  roun'  some  days,  but 
Lor'  !  I  kin  beat  any  on  'em  teckin'  keer  o'  the  patients ;  en 
wen  they  dies,  I  kin  lay  'em  out.  You  ast  the  wardmaster 
ef  I  kyant  lay  out  a  stiff  with  the  best  o'  "em." 

"That  will  do.     You  can  go  to  sleep  now." 

"  All  right,  Doc.  I  call  everybody  doc  who  asts  sech  a 
lot  o'  questions."  He  shuffled  to  his  cot  and  was  soon 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"HOW   CAN   I?  " 

~\  /TARTINE  sank  into  his  chair  again.  Although  the  con- 
versation  had  been  carried  on  in  low  tones,  it  was 
the  voice  of  Nichol  that  he  had  heard.  Closer  inspection 
of  the  slightly  disfigured  face  proved  that  apart  from  the 
scar  on  the  forehead,  it  was  the  countenance  of  Nichol.  A 
possible  solution  of  the  mystery  was  beginning  to  force 
itself  in  Hobart's  reluctant  mind.  When  Nichol  had  fallen 
in  the  Wilderness,  the  shock  of  his  injury  had  rendered  him 
senseless  and  caused  him  to  appear  dead  to  the  hasty 
scrutiny  of  Sam  and  Jim  Wetherby.  They  were  terribly 
excited  and  had  no  time  for  close  examination.  Nichol 
might  have  revived,  have  been  gathered  up  with  the  Con- 


Il6         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

federate  wounded,  and  sent  to  Richmond.  There  was  dire 
and  tremendous  confusion  at  that  period,  when  within  the 
space  of  two  or  three  days  tens  of  thousands  were  either 
killed  or  disabled.  In  a  Southern  hospital  Nichol  might 
have  recovered  physical  health  while,  from  injury  to  the 
brain,  suffering  complete  eclipse  of  memory.  In  this  case 
he  would  have  to  begin  life  anew,  like  a  child,  and  so  would 
pick  up  the  vernacular  and  bearing  of  the  enlisted  men 
with  whom  he  would  chiefly  associate. 

Because  he  remembered  nothing  and  knew  nothing,  he 
may  at  first  have  been  tolerated  as  a  "  cur'ous  chap,"  then 
employed  as  he  had  explained.  He  could  take  the  place  of 
a  better  man  where  men  were  greatly  needed. 

This  theory  could  solve  the  problem ;  and  Martine's 
hospital  experience  prepared  his  mind  to  understand  what 
would  be  a  hopeless  mystery  to  many.  He  was  so  fearfully 
excited  that  he  could  not  remain  in  the  ward.  The  very 
proximity  to  this  strange  being,  who  had  virtually  risen  from 
the  dead  and  appeared  to  him  of  all  others,  was  a  sort  of 
torture  in  itself. 

What  effect  would  this  discovery  have  on  his  relations 
to  Helen  ?  He  dared  not  think  •  yet  he  must  think.  Al 
ready  the  temptation  of  his  life  was  forming  in  his  mind. 
His  cousin  was  sleeping ;  and  with  a  wild  impatience  to  es 
cape,  to  get  away  from  all  his  kind,  he  stole  noiselessly  out 
into  the  midnight  and  deserted  streets.  On,  on  he  went, 
limping  he  knew  not,  cared  not  where,  for  his  passion  and 
mental  agony  drove  him  hither  and  thither  like  a  leaf  before 
a  fitful  gale. 

"  No  one  knows  of  this,"  he  groaned.  "  I  can  still  return 
and  marry  Helen.  But  oh,  what  a  secret  to  carry  !  " 

Then  his  heart  pleaded.  "  This  is  not  the  lover  she 
lost,  —  only  a  horrible,  mocking  semblance.  He  has  lost 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  117 

his  own  identity ;  he  does  not  even  know  himself —  would 
not  know  her.  Ah  !  I  'm  not  sure  of  that.  I  would  be 
dead  indeed  if  her  dear  features  did  not  kindle  my  eyes  in 
recognition.  It  may  be  that  the  sight  of  her  face  is  the  one 
thing  essential  to  restore  him.  I  feel  this  would  be  true  were 
it  my  case.  But  how  can  I  give  her  up  now  ?  How  can  I  ?  — 
how  can  I  ?  Oh,  this  terrible  journey  !  No  wonder  Helen 
had  forebodings.  She  loves  me  ;  she  is  mine.  ,  No  one  else 
has  so  good  a  right.  We  were  to  be  married  only  a  few 
hours  hence.  Then  she  whom  I  Ve  loved  from  childhood 
would  make  my  home  a  heaven  on  earth.  And  yet  —  and 
yet—  Even  in  the  darkness  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands,  shuddered,  moaned,  writhed,  and  grated  his  teeth  in 
the  torment  of  the  conflict. 

Hour  after  hour  he  wavered,  now  on  the  point  of  yielding, 
then  stung  by  conscience  into  desperate  uncertainty.  The 
night  was  cold,  the  howling  wind  would  have  chilled  him  at 
another  time,  but  during  his  struggle  great  drops  of  sweat 
often  poured  from  his  face.  Only  the  eye  of  God  saw  that 
battle,  the  hardest  that  was  fought  and  won  during  the  war. 

At  last,  when  well  out  of  the  city,  he  lifted  his  agonized 
eyes  and  saw  the  beautiful  hues  of  morning  tinging  the  east. 
Unconsciously,  he  repeated  the  sublime,  creative  words, 
"  Let  there  be  light."  It  came  to  him.  With  the  vanish 
ing  darkness,  he  revolted  finally  against  the  thought  of  any 
shadows  existing  between  him  and  Helen.  She  should 
have  all  the  light  that  he  had,  and  decide  her  own  course. 
He  had  little  hope  that  she  would  wed  him,  even  if  she  did 
not  marry  Nichol  in  his  present  condition,  —  a  condition 
probably  only  temporary  and  amenable  to  skilful  treatment. 

Wearily  he  dragged  his  lame  foot  back  to  a  hotel  in  the 
populous  part  of  the  city,  and  obtained  food  and  wine,  for  he 
was  terribly  exhausted.  Next  he  telegraphed  Mr.  Kemble  : 


Il8         TAKEN  ALIVE :    AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

"  Arrived  last  evening.  The  wedding  will  have  to  be  post 
poned.  Will  explain  later." 

"  It 's  the  best  I  can  do  now,"  he  muttered.  "  Helen  will 
think  it  is  all  due  to  my  cousin's  illness."  Then  he  returned 
to  the  hospital  and  found  his  relative  in  a  state  of  wonder 
ment  at  his  absence,  but  refreshed  from  a  good  night's  rest. 
Yankee  Blank  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  Hobart,"  exclaimed  his  cousin,  "you  look  ill,  —  ten 
years  older  than  you  did  last  night." 

"  You  see  me  now  by  daylight,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "  I 
am  not  very  well." 

"  It 's  a  perfect  shame  that  I  Ve  been  the  cause  of  so 
much  trouble,  especially  when  it  was  n't  necessary." 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  "  thought  Marline,  "  there  was  even  no 
need  of  this  fatal  journey."  But  his  face  had  become  grave 
and  inscrutable,  and  the  plea  of  ill-health  reconciled  his 
cousin  to  the  necessity  of  immediate  return.  There  was  no 
good  reason  for  his  remaining,  for  by  a  few  additional  ar 
rangements  his  relative  would  do  very  well  and  soon  be  able 
to  take  care  of  himself.  Martine  felt  that  he  could  not 
jeopardize  his  hard-won  victory  by  delay,  which  was  as  tor 
turing  as  the  time  intervening  between  a  desperate  surgical 
operation  and  the  knowledge  that  it  is  inevitable. 

After  seeing  that  his  cousin  made  a  good  breakfast,  he 
sought  a  private  interview  with  the  wardmaster.  He  was 
able  to  extract  but  little  information  about  Yankee  Blank 
more  than  the  man  had  given  himself.  "  Doctors  say  he 
may  regain  his  memory  at  any  time,  or  it  may  be  a  long 
while,  and  possibly  never,"  was  the  conclusion. 

"  I  think  I  know  him,"  said  Martine.  "  I  will  bring  a 
physician  from  the  city  to  consult  this  morning  with  the 
surgeon  in  charge." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  119 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  was  the  reply.  "  Something  would 
have  to  be  done  soon.  He  is  just  staying  on  here  and  mak 
ing  himself  useful  to  some  extent." 

When  Marline  re-entered  the  ward,  Yankee  Blank  ap 
peared,  grinned,  and  said  affably,  "  Howdy."  Alas  !  a  for 
lorn,  miserable  hope  that  he  might  have  been  mistaken  was 
banished  from  Hobart's  mind  now  that  he  saw  Nichol  in 
the  clear  light  of  day.  The  scar  across  his  forehead  and  a 
change  of  expression,  denoting  the  eclipse  of  fine,  cultivated 
manhood,  could  not  disguise  the  unmistakable  features. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  carry  out  as  quickly  as 
possible  the  purpose  which  had  cost  him  so  dear. 

He  first  telegraphed  his  uncle  to  dismiss  further  anxiety, 
and  that  his  son  would  soon  be  able  to  visit  him.  Then  the 
heavy-hearted  man  sought  a  physician  whom  he  knew  well 
by  reputation. 

The  consultation  was  held,  and  Nichol  (as  he  may  be 
more  properly  named  hereafter)  was  closely  questioned  and 
carefully  examined.  The  result  merely  confirmed  previous 
impressions.  It  was  explained,  as  far  as  explanation  can  be 
given  of  the  mysterious  functions  of  the  brain,  that  either 
the  concussion  of  the  exploding  shell  or  the  wound  from  a 
flying  fragment  had  paralyzed  the  organ  of  memory.  When 
such  paralysis  would  cease,  if  ever,  no  one  could  tell.  The 
power  to  recall  everything  might  return  at  any  moment  or  it 
might  be  delayed  indefinitely.  A  shock,  a  familiar  face, 
might  supply  the  potency  required,  or  restoration  come 
through  the  slow,  unseen  processes  of  nature.  Martine 
believed  that  Helen's  face  and  voice  would  accomplish 
everything. 

He  was  well  known  to  the  medical  authorities  and  had  no 
difficulty  in  securing  belief  that  he  had  identified  Nichol. 
He  also  promised  that  abundant  additional  proof  should  be 


I2O          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

sent  on  from  Alton,  such  certainty  being  necessary  to  secure 
the  officer's  back  pay  and  proper  discharge  from  the  service. 
The  surgeon  then  addressed  the  man  so  strangely  disabled, 
"You  know  I  'm  in  charge  of  this  hospital?  " 

"  I  reckon,"  replied  Nichol,  anxiously,  for  the  brief  ex 
perience  which  he  could  recall  had  taught  him  that  the 
authority  of  the  surgeon-in-chief  was  autocratic. 

"  Well,  first,  you  must  give  up  the  name  of  Yankee  Blank. 
Your  name  hereafter  is  Captain  Nichol." 

"  All  right,  Doctor.     I  '11  be  a  gin'ral  ef  you  sez  so." 

"Very  well;  remember  your  name  is  Captain  Nichol. 
Next,  you  must  obey  this  man  and  go  with  him.  You  must 
do  just  what  he  says  in  all  respects.  His  name  is  Mr. 
Hobart  Martine." 

"  Yes,  he  tole  me  las'  night,  Hob't  Ma'tine.  He  took  on 
mighty  cur'ous  after  seein'  me." 

"  Do  you  understand  that  you  are  to  mind,  to  obey  him 
in  all  respects  just  as  you  have  obeyed  me?" 

"I  reckon.     Will  he  tek  me  to  anuther  hospital?" 

"  He  will  take  you  where  you  will  be  well  cared  for  and 
treated  kindly."  Having  written  Nichol's  discharge  from 
the  hospital,  the  surgeon  turned  to  other  duties. 

Martine  informed  his  cousin,  as  far  as  it  was  essential, 
of  the  discovery  he  had  made  and  of  the  duties  which  it  im 
posed,  then  took  his  leave.  Nichol  readily  accompanied  him, 
and  with  the  exception  of  a  tendency  to  irritation  at  little 
things,  exhibited  much  of .  the  good-natured  docility  of 
a  child.  Martine  took  him  to  a  hotel,  saw  that  he  had  a 
bath,  put  him  in  the  hands  of  a  barber,  and  then  sent  for 
a  clothier.  When  dressed  in  clean  linen  and  a  dark  civilian 
suit,  the  appearance  of  the  man  was  greatly  improved. 
Hobart  had  set  his  teeth,  and  would  entertain  no  thought 
of  compromise  with  his  conscience.  He  would  do  by 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  121 

Nichol  as  he  would  wish  to  be  done  by  if  their  relations 
were  reversed.  Helen  should  receive  no  greater  shock 
than  was  inevitable,  nor  should  Nichol  lose  the  advantage 
of  appearing  before  her  in  the  outward  aspect  of  a  gentle 
man. 

Marline  then  planned  his  departure  so  that  he  would 
arrive  at  Alton  in  the  evening,  —  the  evening  of  the  day  on 
which  he  was  to  have  been  married.  He  felt  that  Mr. 
Kemble  should  see  Nichol  first  and  hear  the  strange  story ; 
also  that  the  father  must  break  the  news  to  the  daughter, 
for  he  could  not.  It  was  a  terrible  journey  to  the  poor 
fellow,  for  during  the  long  hours  of  inaction  he  was  com 
pelled  to  face  the  probable  results  of  his  discovery.  The 
sight  of  Nichol  and  his  manner  was  intolerable  ;  and  in 
addition,  he  was  almost  as  much  care  as  a  child.  Every 
thing  struck  him  as  new  and  strange,  and  he  was  disposed 
to  ask  numberless  questions.  His  vernacular,  his  alterna 
tions  of  amusement  and  irritation,  and  the  oddity  of  his 
ignorance  concerning  things  which  should  be  simple  or  fa 
miliar  to  a  grown  man,  attracted  the  attention  of  his  fellow- 
passengers.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  Martine,  by  his  stern, 
sad  face  and  a  cold,  repelling  manner,  kept  curiosity  from 
intruding  at  every  point. 

At  last,  with  heart  beating  thickly,  he  saw  the  lights  of 
Alton  gleaming  in  the  distance.  It  was  a  train  not  often 
used  by  the  villagers,  and  fortunately  no  one  had  entered 
the  car  who  knew  him  ;  even  the  conductor  was  a  stranger. 
Alighting  at  the  depot,  he  hastily  took  a  carriage,  and  with 
his  charge  was  driven  to  the  private  entrance  of  the  hotel. 
Having  given  the  hackman  an  extra  dollar  not  to  mention 
his  arrival  till  morning,  he  took  Nichol  into  the  dimly- 
lighted  and  deserted  parlor  and  sent  for  the  well-known 
landlord.  Mr.  Jackson,  a  bustling  little  man,  who,  between 


122          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

the  gossip  of  the  place  and  his  few  guests,  never  seemed  to 
have  a  moment's  quiet,  soon  entered.  "  Why,  Mr.  Mar- 
tine,"  he  exclaimed,  "  we  was  n't  a-lookin'  for  you  yet. 
News  got  around  somehow  that  your  cousin  was  dyin' 
in  Washington  and  that  your  weddin'  was  put  off  too  — 
Why  !  you  look  like  a  ghost,  even  in  this  light,"  and  he 
turned  up  the  lamp. 

Marline  had  told  Nichol  to  stand  by  a  window  with  his 
back  to  the  door.  He  now  turned  the  key,  pulled  down 
the  curtains,  then  drew  his  charge  forward  where  the  light 
fell  clear  upon  his  face,  and  asked,  "Jackson,  who  is 
that?" 

The  landlord  stared,  his  jaw  fell  from  sheer  astonishment, 
as  he  faltered,  "  Captain  Nichol !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Nichol,  with  a  pleased  grin,  "  that 's  my  new 
name  !  Jes'  got  it,  like  this  new  suit  o'  clo's,  bes'  I  ever 
had,  doggoned  ef  they  ain't.  My  old  name  was  Yankee 
Blank." 

"  Great  Scott !  "  ejaculated  Jackson  ;  "  is  he  crazy?  " 

"  Look  yere,"  cried  Nichol ;  "  don'  yer  call  me  crazy  or 
I  '11  light  on  yer  so  yer  won'  fergit  it." 

"  There,  there  !  "  said  Marline,  soothingly,  "  Mr.  Jackson 
does  n't  mean  any  harm.  He  's  only  surprised  to  see  you 
home  again." 

"  Is  this  home  ?     What 's  home  ?  " 

"  It 's  the  town  where  you  were  brought  up.  We  '11 
make  you  understand  about  it  all  before  long.  Now  you 
shall  have  some  supper.  Mr.  Jackson  is  a  warm  friend  of 
yours,  and  will  see  that  you  have  a  good  one." 

"  I  reckon  we  '11  get  on  ef  he  gives  me  plenty  o'  fodder. 
Bring  it  toreckly,  fer  I  'm  hungry.  Quil  yer  slarin',  kyanl 
yer?" 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  Captain  Nichol?     Why,  I  — 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  123 

"  Naw.  Never  seed  ner  yeared  on  yer.  Did  I  ever 
nuss  yer  in  a  hospital  ?  I  kyant  reckerlect  all  on  'em.  Get 
we  uns  some  supper." 

"  That 's  the  thing  to  do  first,  Jackson,"  added  Marline. 
"  Show  us  upstairs  to  a  private  room  and  wait  on  us  yourself. 
Please  say  nothing  of  this  till  I  give  you  permission." 

They  were  soon  established  in  a  suitable  apartment,  in 
which  a  fire  was  kindled.  Nichol  took  a  rocking-chair 
and  acquiesced  in  Martine's  going  out  on  the  pretext  of 
hastening  supper. 

The  landlord  received  explanations  which  enabled  him 
to  co-operate  with  Marline.  "  I  could  not,"  said  the  latter, 
"  take  him  to  his  own  home  without  first  preparing  his 
family.  Neither  could  I  take  him  to  mine  for  several 
reasons." 

"  I  can  understand  some  of  'em,  Mr.  Marline.  Why, 
great  Scott!  How  about  your  marriage,  now  that — " 

"  We  won'l  discuss  lhal  subject.  The  one  thing  for  you 
to  keep  in  mind  is  that  Nichol  lost  his  memory  at  the  time 
of  his  wound.  He  don'l  like  lo  be  slared  al  or  Ihoughl 
strange.  You  must  humor  him  much  as  you  would  a  child. 
Perhaps  the  sight  of  familiar  faces  and  scenes  will  restore 
him.  Now  copy  this  note  in  your  handwriting  and  send  it 
to  Mr.  Kemble.  Tell  your  messenger  to  be  sure  to  put  it 
into  the  banker's  hands  and  no  other's,"  and  he  tore  from 
his  note-book  a  leaf  on  which  was  pencilled  the  following 
words,  — 

MR.  KEMBLE. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  A  sick  man  at  the  hotel  wishes  to  see  you  on 
important  business.  Don't  think  it's  bad  news  about  Mr. 
Martine,  because  it  isn't.  Please  come  at  once  and  oblige, 

HENRY  JACKSON. 


124         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 
CHAPTER   IX. 

SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS. 

'"THIS  first  day  of  winter,  her  fated  wedding-day,  was  a 
sad  and  strange  one  to  Helen  Kemble.  The  sun  was 
hidden  by  dark  clouds,  yet  no  snow  fell  on  the  frozen 
ground.  She  had  wakened  in  the  morning  with  a  start, 
oppressed  by  a  disagreeable  yet  forgotten  dream.  Hastily 
dressing,  she  consoled  herself  with  the  hope  of  a  long  letter 
from  Martine,  explaining  everything  and  assuring  her  of  his 
welfare  ;  but  the  early  mail  brought  nothing.  As  the  morn 
ing  advanced,  a  telegram  from  Washington,  purposely  de 
layed,  merely  informed  her  that  her  affianced  was  well  and 
that  full  information  was  on  its  way. 

"  He  has  evidently  found  his  cousin  very  low,  and  needing 
constant  care,"  she  had  sighingly  remarked  at  dinner. 

"  Yes,  Nellie,"  said  the  banker,  cheerily,  "  but  it  is  a  com 
fort  he  is  well.  No  doubt  you  are  right  about  his  cousin, 
and  it  has  turned  out  as  Hobart  feared.  In  this  case  it  is 
well  he  went,  for  he  would  always  have  reproached  himself 
if  he  had  not.  The  evening  mail  will  probably  make  all 
clear." 

"  It  has  been  so  unfortunate  !  "  complained  Mrs.  Kemble. 
"  If  it  had  only  happened  a  little  earlier,  or  a  little  later  ! 
To  have  all  one's  preparations  upset  and  one's  plans  frus 
trated  is  exasperating.  Were  it  not  for  that  journey,  Helen 
would  have  been  married  by  this  time.  People  come  osten 
sibly  to  express  sympathy,  but  in  reality  to  ask  questions." 

"  I  don't  care  about  people,"  said  Helen,  "  but  the  day 
has  been  so  different  from  what  we  expected  that  it 's  hard 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  125 

not  to  yield  to  a  presentiment  of  trouble.  It  is  so  dark  and 
gloomy  that  we  almost  need  a  lamp  at  midday." 

"  Well,  well,"  cried  hearty  Mr.  Kemble,  "  I  'm  not  going 
to  cross  any  bridges  till  I  come  to  them.  That  telegram 
from  Hobart  is  all  we  need,  to  date.  I  look  at  things  as  I 
do  at  a  bank-bill.  If  its  face  is  all  right,  and  the  bill  itself 
all  right,  that 's  enough.  You  women-folks  have  such  a  lot 
of  moods  and  tenses  !  Look  at  this  matter  sensibly.  Ho 
bart  was  right  in  going.  He  's  doing  his  duty,  and  soon  will 
be  back  with  mind  and  conscience  at  rest.  It  is  n't  as  if  he 
were  ill  himself." 

"  Yes,  papa,  that 's  just  the  difference ;  we  women  feel, 
and  you  men  reason.  What  you  say,  though,  is  a  good 
wholesome  antidote.  I  fear  I  'm  a  little  morbid  to-day." 

After  dinner  she  and  her  mother  slipped  over  to  the  ad 
joining  cottage,  which  had  been  made  so  pretty  for  her 
reception.  While  Mrs.  Kemble  busied  herself  here  and 
there,  Helen  kindled  a  fire  on  the  hearth  of  the  sitting-room 
and  sat  down  in  the  low  chair  which  she  knew  was  designed 
for  her.  The  belief  that  she  would  occupy  it  daily  and  be 
at  home,  happy  herself  and,  better  far,  making  another,  to 
whom  she  owed  so  much,  happy  beyond  even  his  fondest 
hope,  brought  smiles  to  her  face  as  she  watched  the  flicker 
ing  blaze. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  "  I  can  make  him  happier  even 
than  he  dreams.  I  know  him  so  well,  his  tastes,  his  habits, 
what  he  most  enjoys,  that  it  will  be  an  easy  task  to  antici 
pate  his  wishes  and  enrich  his  life.  Then  he  has  been  such 
a  faithful,  devoted  friend  !  He  shall  learn  that  his  example 
has  not  been  lost  on  me." 

At  this  moment  the  wind  rose  in  such  a  long  mournful, 
human-like  sigh  about  the  house  that  she  started  up  and  al 
most  shuddered.  When  the  evening  mail  came  and  brought 


126          TAKEN  ALIl'E:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

no  letter,  she  found  it  hard  indeed  not  to  yield  to  deep 
depression.  In  vain  her  father  reasoned  with  her.  "  I 
know  all  you  say  sounds  true  to  the  ear,"  she  said,  "  but  not 
to  my  heart.  I  can't  help  it ;  but  I  am  oppressed  with  a 
nervous  dread  of  some  impending  trouble." 

They  passed  the  early  hours  of  the  evening  as  best  they 
could,  seeking  to  divert  each  other's  thoughts.  It  had  been 
long  since  the  kind  old  banker  was  so  garrulous,  and  Helen 
resolved  to  reward  him  by  keeping  up.  Indeed,  she  shrank 
from  retiring,  feeling  that  through  the  sleepless  night  she 
would  be  the  prey  of  all  sorts  of  wretched  fancies.  Never 
once  did  her  wildest  thoughts  suggest  what  had  happened, 
or  warn  her  of  the  tempest  soon  to  rage  in  her  breast. 

Then  came  the  late  messenger  with  the  landlord's  copied 
note.  She  snatched  it  from  the  bearer's  hand  before  he 
could  ring  the  bell,  for  her  straining  ears  had  heard  his  step 
even  on  the  gravel  walk.  Tremblingly  she  tore  open  the 
envelope  in  the  hall  without  looking  at  the  address. 

"  Mr.  Jackson  said  how  I  was  to  give  it  to  your  father," 
protested  the  messenger. 

"Well,  well,"  responded  Mr.  Kemble,  perturbed  and 
anxious,  "  I  'm  here.  You  can  go  unless  there  's  an  answer 
required." 

"  Was  n't  told  nothin'  'bout  one,"  growled  the  departing 
errand-boy. 

"Give  the  note  to  me,  Helen,"  said  her  father.  "Why 
do  you  stare  at  it  so?" 

She  handed  it  to  him  without  a  word,  but  looked  search- 
ingly  in  his  face,  and  so  did  his  wife,  who  had  joined  him. 

"  Why,  this  is  rather  strange,"  he  said. 

"  I  think  it  is,"  added  Helen,  emphatically. 

Mrs.  Kemble  took  the  note  and  after  a  moment  ejaculated, 
"  Well,  thank  the  Lord  !  It  is  n't  about  Hobart." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  12 J 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  banker,  almost  irritably.  "  We  Ve  all 
worried  about  Hobart  till  in  danger  of  making  fools  of  our 
selves.  As  if  people  never  get  sick  and  send  for  relatives, 
or  as  if  letters  were  never  delayed  !  Why,  bless  me  !  haven't 
we  heard  to-day  that  he  was  well?  and  hasn't  Jackson,  who 
knows  more  about  other  people's  business  than  his  own, 
been  considerate  enough  to  say  that  his  request  has  nothing 
to  do  with  Hobart  ?  It  is  just  as  he  says,  some  one  is  sick 
and  wants  to  arrange  about  money  matters  before  banking 
hours  to-morrow.  There,  it  is  n't  far.  I  '11  soon  be  back." 

"  Let  me  go  with  you,  father,"  pleaded  Helen.  "  I  can 
stay  with  Mrs.  Jackson  or  sit  in  the  parlor  till  you  are 
through." 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed." 

"  Papa,  /  am  going  with  you,"  said  Helen,  half-despe- 
rately.  "  I  don't  believe  I  am  so  troubled  for  nothing. 
Perhaps  it  's  a  merciful  warning,  and  I  may  be  of  use  to 
you." 

"  Oh,  let  her  go,  father,"  said  his  wife.  "  She  had  better 
be  with  you  than  nervously  worrying  at  home.  I  '11  be  bet 
ter  satisfied  if  she  is  with  you." 

"  Bundle  up  well,  then,  and  come  along,  you  silly  little 
girl." 

Nichol  was  too  agreeably  occupied  with  his  supper  to 
miss  Hobart,  who  watched  in  the  darkened  parlor  for  the 
coming  of  Mr.  Kemble.  At  last  he  saw  the  banker  passing 
through  the  light  streaming  from  a  shop-window,  and  also 
recognized  Helen  at  his  side.  His  nise  in  sending  a  note 
purporting  to  come  from  the  landlord  had  evidently  failed  ; 
and  here  was  a  new  complication.  He  was  so  exhausted  in 
body  and  mind  that  he  felt  he  could  not  meet  the  girl  now 
without  giving  way  utterly.  Hastily  returning  to  the  room 
in  which  were  Nichol  and  Jackson,  he  summoned  the  latter 


128          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

and  said,  "  Unfortunately,  Miss  Kemble  is  coming  with  her 
father.  Keep  your  counsel ;  give  me  a  light  in  another  pri 
vate  room  ;  detain  the  young  lady  in  the  parlor,  and  then 
bring  Mr.  Kemble  to  me." 

"  Ah,  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Kemble,"  said  the  landlord, 
a  moment  or  two  later,  with  reassuring  cheerfulness ;  '•'  you 
too,  Miss  Helen.  That 's  right,  take  good  care  of  the  old 
gentleman.  Yes,  we  have  a  sick  man  here  who  wants  to 
see  you,  sir.  Miss  Helen,  take  a  seat  in  the  parlor  by  the 
fire  while  I  turn  up  the  lamp.  Guess  you  won't  have  to 
wait  long." 

"  Now,  Helen,"  said  her  father,  smiling  at  her  significantly, 
"  can  you  trust  me  out  of  your  sight  to  go  upstairs  with 
Mr.  Jackson  ?  " 

Much  relieved,  she  smiled  in  return  and  sat  down  to 
wait. 

"Who  is  this  man,  Jackson?"  Mr.  Kemble  asked  on 
the  stairs. 

"  Well,  sir,  he  said  he  would  explain  everything." 

A  moment  later  the  banker  needed  not  Marline's  warn 
ing  gesture  enjoining  silence,  for  he  was  speechless  with 
astonishment. 

"Mr.  Jackson,"  whispered  Marline,  "will  you  please  re 
main  in  the  olher  room  and  look  after  your  patient?  " 

"  Hobarl,"  faltered  Mr.  Kemble,  "  in  the  name  of  all 
that's  strange,  what  does  Ihis  mean?" 

"  II  is  indeed  very  strange,  sir.  You  must  summon  all 
your  nerve  and  fortitude  to  help  us  through.  Never  before 
were  your  strength  and  good  strong  common-sense  more 
needed.  I  've  nearly  reached  the  end  of  my  endurance. 
Please,  sir,  for  Helen's  sake,  preserve  your  self-conlrol  and 
ihe  best  use  of  all  your  faculties,  for  you  must  now  advise. 
Mr.  Kemble,  Captain  Nichol  is  alive." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  129 

The  banker  sank  into  a  chair  and  groaned.  "  This  would 
have  been  glad  news  to  me  once ;  I  suppose  it  should 
be  so  now.  But  how,  how  can  this  be?" 

"  Well,  sir,  as  you  say,  it  should  be  glad  news ;  it  will 
be  to  all  eventually.  I  am  placed  in  a  very  hard  position ; 
but  I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty,  and  will." 

"  Why,  Hobart,  my  boy,  you  look  more  worn  than 
you  did  after  your  illness.  Merciful  Heaven !  what  a 
complication  !  " 

"  A  far  worse  one  than  you  can  even  imagine.  Captain 
Nichol  would  n't  know  you.  His  memory  was  destroyed 
at  the  time  of  the  injury.  All  before  that  is  gone  utterly ;  " 
and  Martine  rapidly  narrated  what  is  already  known  to  the 
reader,  concluding,  "  I  'm  sorry  Helen  came  with  you,  and 
I  think  you  had  better  get  her  home  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
could  not  take  him  to  my  home  for  several  reasons,  or  at 
least  I  thought  it  best  not  to.  It  is  my  belief  that  the  sight  of 
Helen,  the  tones  of  her  voice,  will  restore  him  ;  and  I  do  not 
think  it  best  for  him  to  regain  his  consciousness  of  the  past 
in  a  dwelling  prepared  for  Helen's  reception  as  my  wife. 
Perhaps  later  on,  too,  you  will  understand  why  I  cannot 
see  him  there.  I  shall  need  a  home,  a  refuge  with  no  such 
associations.  Here,  on  this  neutral  ground,  I  thought  we 
could  consult,  and  if  necessary  send  for  his  parents  to 
night.  I  would  have  telegraphed  you,  but  the  case  is  so 
complicated,  so  difficult.  Helen  must  be  gradually  pre 
pared  for  the  part  she  must  take.  Cost  me  what  it  may, 
Nichol  must  have  his  chance.  His  memory  may  corne 
back  instantly  and  he  recall  everything  to  the  moment  of  his 
injury.  What  could  be  more  potent  to  effect  this  than  the 
sight  and  voice  of  Helen?  No  one  here  except  Jackson 
is  now  aware  of  his  condition.  If  she  can  restore  him,  no 
one  else,  not  even  his  parents,  need  know  anything  about 

9 


130         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

it,  except  in  a  general  way.  It  will  save  a  world  of  disa 
greeable  talk  and  distress.  At  any  rate,  this  course  seemed 
the  best  I  could  hit  upon  in  my  distracted  condition." 

"  Well,  Hobart,  my  poor  young  friend,  you  have  been  tried 
as  by  fire,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  in  a  voice  broken  by  sympa 
thy  ;  "  God  help  you  and  guide  us  all  in  this  strange  snarl ! 
I  feel  that  the  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  get  Helen  home. 
Such  tidings  as  yours  should  be  broken  to  her  in  that  ref 
uge  only." 

"  I  agree  with  you  most  emphatically,  Mr.  Kemble.  In 
the  seclusion  of  her  own  home,  with  none  present  except 
yourself  and  her  mother,  she  should  face  this  thing  and 
nerve  herself  to  act  her  part,  the  most  important  of  all. 
If  she  cannot  awaken  Captain  Nichol's  memory,  it  is  hard 
to  say  what  will,  or  when  he  will  be  restored." 

"  Possibly  seeing  me,  so  closely  associated  with  her,  may 
have  the  same  effect,"  faltered  the  banker. 

"  I  doubt  it ;  but  we  can  try  it.  Don't  expect  me  to 
speak  while  in  the  hallway.  Helen,  no  doubt,  is  on  the 
alert,  and  I  cannot  meet  her  to-night.  I  am  just  keeping 
up  from  sheer  force  of  will.  You  must  try  to  realize  it. 
This  discovery  will  change  everything  for  me.  Helen's 
old  love  will  revive  in  all-absorbing  power.  I  Ve  faced  this 
in  thought,  but  cannot  in  reality  now,  —  I  simply  cannot. 
It  would  do  no  good.  My  presence  would  be  an  embar 
rassment  to  her,  and  I  taxed  beyond  mortal  endurance. 
You  may  think  me  weak,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  As  soon 
as  possible  I  must  put  you,  and  if  you  think  best,  Captain 
Nichol's  father,  in  charge  of  the  situation.  Jackson  can 
send  for  his  father  at  once  if  you  wish." 

"  I  do  wish  it  immediately.  I  can't  see  my  way  through 
this.  I  would  like  Dr.  Barnes'  advice  and  presence  also." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  wise,  sir.     The  point  I  wish  to 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  131 

make  is  that  I  have  done  about  all  that  I  now  can  in  this 
affair.  My  further  presence  is  only  another  complication. 
At  any  rate,  I  must  have  a  respite,  —  the  privilege  of  going 
quietly  to  my  own  home  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Oh,  Hobart,  my  heart  aches  for  you ;  it  just  aches  for 
you.  You  have  indeed  been  called  upon  to  endure  a 
hundredfold  too  much  in  this  strange  affair.  How  it  will 
all  end  God  only  knows.  I  understand  you  sufficiently. 
Leave  the  matter  to  me  now.  We  will  have  Dr.  Barnes  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol  here  as  soon  as  can  be.  I  suppose 
I  had  better  see  the  captain  a  few  moments  and  then  take 
Helen  home." 

Marline  led  the  way  into  the  other  apartment,  where 
Nichol,  rendered  good-natured  by  his  supper  and  a  cigar, 
was  conversing  sociably  with  the  landlord.  Mr.  Kemble 
fairly  trembled  as  he  came  forward,  involuntarily  expecting 
that  the  man  so  well  known  to  him  must  give  some  sign 
of  recognition. 

Nichol  paid  no  heed  to  him.  He  had  been  too  long 
accustomed  to  see  strangers  coming  and  going  to  give  them 
either  thought  or  attention. 

"I  say,  Hob't  Ma'tine,"  he  began,  "don'  yer  cuss  me 
fer  eatin'  all  the  supper.  I  'lowed  ter  this  Jackson,  as  yer 
call  'im,  that  yer  'd  get  a  bite  somewhar  else,  en  he  'lowed 
yer  would." 

"All  right,  Nichol ;   I  'm  glad  you  had  a  good  supper." 

"  I  say,  Jackson,  this  Ma'tine  's  a  cur'ous  chap,  —  mo' 
cur'ous  than  I  be,  I  reckon.  He  's  been  actin'  cur'ous 
ever  since  he  seed  me  in  the  horspital.  It 's  all  cur'ous. 
'Fore  he  come,  doctors  en  folks  was  tryin'  ter  fin'  out 
'bout  me,  en  this  Ma'tine  'lows  he  knows  all  'bout  me.  Ef 
he  wuz  n't  so  orful  glum,  he  'd  be  a  good  chap  anuff,  ef  he 
is  cur'ous.  Hit's  all  a-changin'  somehow,  en  yet 'tis  n't. 


132          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Awhile  ago  nobody  knowd  'bout  me,  en  they  wuz  allus  a- 
pesterin'  of  me  with  questions.  En  now  Ma'tine  en  you 
'low  you  know  'bout  me,  yet  you  ast  questions  jes'  the  same. 
Like  anuff  this  man  yere,"  pointing  with  his  cigar  to  Mr. 
Kemble,  who  was  listening  with  a  deeply-troubled  face, 
"  knows  'bout  me  too,  yet  wants  to  ast  questions.  I  don' 
keer  ef  I  do  say  it,  I  had  better  times  with  the  Johnnies 
that  call  me  Yankee  Blank  than  I  ever  had  sence.  Well, 
ole  duffer  [to  Mr.  Kemble],  ast  away  and  git  yer  load 
offn  yer  mind.  I  don'  like  glum  faces  roun'  en  folks  jes' 
nachelly  bilin'  over  with  questions." 

"  No,  Captain  Nichol,"  said  the  banker,  gravely  and  sadly, 
"  I  've  no  questions  to  ask.  Good-by  for  the  present." 

Nichol  nodded  a  careless  dismissal  and  resumed  his 
reminiscences  with  Jackson,  whose  eager  curiosity  and 
readiness  to  laugh  was  much  more  to  his  mind. 

Following  the  noise  made  by  closing  the  door,  Helen's 
voice  rang  up  from  the  hall  below,  "  Papa  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  'm  coming,  dear,"  he  tried  to  answer  cheerily. 
Then  he  wrung  Martine's  hand  and  whispered,  "  Send  for 
Dr.  Barnes.  God  knows  you  should  have  relief.  Tell 
Jackson  also  to  have  a  carriage  go  for  Mr.  Nichol  at 
once.  After  the  doctor  comes  you  may  leave  all  in  our 
hands.  Good-by." 

Martine  heard  the  rustle  of  a  lady's  dress  and  retired 
precipitately. 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  133 

CHAPTER  X. 

"YOU   CANNOT  UNDERSTAND." 

"\~\  7ITH  an  affectation  of  briskness  he  was  far  from 
*  feeling,  Mr.  Kemble  came  down  the  stairs  and  joined 
his  daughter  in  the  hall.  He  had  taken  pains  to  draw  his 
hat  well  over  his  eyes,  anticipating  and  dreading  her  keen 
scrutiny,  but  strange  to  say,  his  troubled  demeanor  passed 
unnoticed.  In  the  interval  of  waiting  Helen's  thoughts 
had  taken  a  new  turn.  "Well,  papa,"  she  began,  as  they 
passed  into  the  street,  "  I  am  curious  to  know  about  the 
sick  man.  You  stayed  an  age,  but  all  the  same  I  'm  glad 
I  came  with  you.  Forebodings,  presentiments,  and  all 
that  kind  of  thing  seemed  absurd  the  moment  I  saw  Jack 
son's  keen,  mousing  little  visage.  His  very  voice  is  like 
a  ray  of  garish  light  entering  a  dusky,  haunted  room. 
Things  suggesting  ghosts  and  hobgoblins  become  ridicu 
lously  prosaic,  and  you  are  ashamed  of  yourself  and  your 
fears." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Mr.  Kemble,  yielding  to  irritation  in 
his  deep  perplexity,  "  the  more  matter-of-fact  we  are  the 
better  we  're  off.  I  suppose  the  best  thing  to  do  is  just  to 
face  what  happens  and  try  to  be  brave." 

"  Well,  papa,  what 's  happened  to  annoy  you  to-night  ? 
Is  this  sick  man  going  to  make  you  trouble?" 

"  Like  enough.  I  hope  not.  At  any  rate,  he  has  claims 
which  I  must  meet." 

"Don't  you  think  you  can  meet  them?"  was  her  next 
anxious  query,  her  mind  reverting  to  some  financial 
obligation. 


134         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

"  We  '11  see.  You  and  mother  '11  have  to  help  me  out, 
I  guess.  I  '11  tell  you  both  when  we  get  home ;  "  and  his 
sigh  was  so  deep  as  to  be  almost  a  groan. 

"  Papa,"  said  Helen,  earnestly  pressing  his  arm,  "  don't 
worry.  Mamma  and  I  will  stand  by  you ;  so  will  Hobart. 
He  is  the  last  one  in  the  world  to  desert  one  in  any  kind 
of  trouble." 

"  I  know  that,  no  one  better ;  but  I  fear  he  '11  be  in 
deeper  trouble  than  any  of  us.  The  exasperating  thing  is 
that  there  should  be  any  trouble  at  all.  If  it  had  only 
happened  before  —  well,  well,  I  can't  talk  here  in  the  street. 
As  you  say,  you  must  stand  by  me,  and  I  '11  do  the  best  I 
can  by  you  and  all  concerned." 

"  Oh,  papa,  there  was  good  cause  for  my  foreboding." 

"  Well,  yes,  and  no.  I  don't  know.  I  'm  at  my  wits' 
end.  If  you  '11  be  brave  and  sensible,  you  can  probably  do 
more  than  any  of  us." 

"  Papa,  papa,  something  is  the  matter  with  Hobart,"  and 
she  drew  him  hastily  into  the  house,  which  they  had  now 
reached. 

Mrs.  Kemble  met  them  at  the  door.  Alarmed  at  her  hus 
band's  troubled  face,  she  exclaimed  anxiously,  "Who  is 
this  man?  What  did  he  want?" 

"  Come  now,  mother,  give  me  a  chance  to  get  my  breath. 
We  '11  close  the  doors,  sit  down,  and  talk  it  all  over." 

Mrs.  Kemble  and  her  daughter  exchanged  an  appre 
hensive  glance  and  followed  with  the  air  of  being  prepared 
for  the  worst. 

The  banker  sat  down  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow,  then  looked  dubiously  at  the  deeply- anxious  faces 
turned  toward  him.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  tell 
you  everything  as  far  as  I  understand  it.  Now  I  want  to 
see  if  you  two  can't  listen  calmly  and  quietly  and  not  give 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  135 

way  to  useless  feeling.     There  's  much  to  be  done,  and  you 
especially,  Helen,  must  be  in  the  right  condition  to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  papa,  why  torture  me  so  ?  Something  has  hap 
pened  to  Hobart.  I  can't  endure  this  suspense." 

"  Something  has  happened  to  us  all,"  replied  her  father, 
gravely.  "  Hobart  has  acted  like  a  hero,  like  a  saint ;  so 
must  you.  He  is  as  well  and  able  to  go  about  as  you  are. 
I  've  seen  him  and  talked  with  him." 

"  He  saw  you  and  not  me?  "  cried  the  girl,  starting  up. 

"  Helen,  I  entreat,  I  command  you  to  be  composed  and 
listen  patiently.  Don't  you  know  him  well  enough  to  be 
sure  he  had  good  reasons  — 

"  I  can't  imagine  a  reason,"  was  the  passionate  reply,  as 
she  paced  the  floor.  "What  reason  could  keep  me  from 
him  ?  Merciful  Heaven  !  father,  have  you  forgotten  that  I 
was  ^to  marry  him  to-day?  Well,"  she  added  hoarsely, 
standing  before  him  with  hands  clinched  in  her  effort  at 
self-restraint,  "the  reason?" 

"  Poor  fellow !  poor  fellow !  he  has  not  forgotten  it," 
groaned  Mr.  Kemble.  "  Well,  I  might  as  well  out  with  it. 
Suppose  Captain  Nichol  was  not  killed  after  all?" 

Helen  sank  into  a  chair  as  if  struck  down  as  Nichol  had 
been  himself.  "  What !  "  she  whispered ;  and  her  face  was 
white  indeed. 

Mrs.  Kemble  rushed  to  her  husband,  demanding,  "  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  us  that  Captain  Nichol  is  alive?" 

"  Yes ;   that 's  just  the  question  we  Ve  got  to  face." 

"  It  brings  up  another  question,"  replied  his  wife,  sternly. 
"  If  he  's  been  alive  all  this  time,  why  did  he  not  let  us 
know?  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  Hobart  has  found  him 
in  Washington  —  " 

"  Helen,"  cried  her  father  to  the  trembling  girl,  "  for 
Heaven's  sake,  be  calm  1  " 


136         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  He  's  alive,  alive  !  "  she  answered,  as  if  no  other  thought 
could  exist  in  her  mind.  Her  eyes  were  kindling,  the 
color  coming  into  her  face,  and  her  bosom  throbbed  quickly 
as  if  her  heart  would  burst  its  bonds.  Suddenly  she  rushed 
to  her  father,  exclaiming,  "  He  was  the  sick  man.  Oh, 
why  did  you  not  let  me  see  him?" 

"  Well,  well !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Kemble,  "  Hobart  was  rightj 
poor  fellow  !  Yes,  Helen,  Captain  Nichol  is  the  sick  man, 
not  dangerously  ill,  however.  You  are  giving  ample  reason 
why  you  should  not  see  him  yet ;  and  I  tell  you  plainly 
you  can't  see  him  till  you  are  just  as  composed  as  I 
am." 

She  burst  into  a  joyous,  half- hysterical  laugh  as  she  ex 
claimed,  "  That 's  not  asking  much.  I  never  saw  you  so 
moved,  papa.  Little  wonder  !  The  dead  is  alive  again  ! 
Oh,  papa,  papa,  you  don't  understand  me  at  all !  Could 
I  hear  such  tidings  composedly,  —  I  who  have  wept  so  many 
long  nights  and  days  over  his  death  ?  I  must  give  expres 
sion  to  overwhelming  feeling  here  where  it  can  do  no  harm, 
but  if  I  had  seen  him  —  when  I  do  see  him  —  ah  !  he  '11 
receive  no  harm  from  me." 

"But,  Helen,  think  of  Hobart,"  cried  Mrs.  Kemble,  in 
sharp  distress. 

"  Mother,  mother,  I  cannot  help  it.  Albert  is  alive, 
alive .'  The  old  feeling  comes  back  like  the  breaking  up  of 
the  fountains  of  the  great  deep.  You  cannot  know,  cannot 
understand  ;  Hobart  will.  I  'm  sorry,  sorry  for  him ;  but 
he  will  understand.  I  thought  Albert  was  dead  ;  I  wanted 
to  make  Hobart  happy.  He  was  so  good  and  kind  and  de 
serving  that  I  did  love  him  in  a  sincere,  quiet  way,  but  not 
with  my  first  love,  not  as  I  loved  Albert.  I  thought  my 
love  was  buried  with  him ;  but  it  has  burst  the  grave  as  he 
has.  Papa,  papa,  let  me  go  to  him,  now,  now  !  You  say  he 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  137 

is  sick ;  it  is  my  place  to  nurse  him  back  to  life.  Who  has 
a  better  right?  Why  do  you  not  bring  him  here? " 

"  Perhaps  it  will  be  best,  since  Helen  feels  so,"  said  Mr. 
Kemble,  looking  at  his  wife. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  she  replied  with  a  deep  sigh. 
"  We  certainly  don't  wish  the  public  to  be  looking  on  any 
more  than  we  can  help.  He  should  be  either  here  or  at  his 
own  home." 

"  There  's  more  reason  for  what  you  say  than  you  think," 
Mr.  Kemble  began. 

"  There,  papa,"  interrupted  Helen,  "  I  'd  be  more  or  less 
than  human  if  I  could  take  this  undreamed-of  news  quietly. 
I  can  see  how  perplexed  and  troubled  you  Ve  been,  and 
how  you  've  kindly  tried  to  prepare  me  for  the  tidings. 
You  will  find  that  I  have  strength  of  mind  to  meet  all  that 
is  required  of  me.  It  is  all  simpler  to  me  than  to  you,  for 
in  a  matter  of  this  kind  the  heart  is  the  guide,  indeed,  the 
only  guide.  Think  !  If  Albert  had  come  back  months  ago ; 
if  Hobart  had  brought  him  back  wounded  and  disabled,  — 
how  would  we  have  acted  ?  Only  our  belief  in  his  death 
led  to  what  has  happened  since,  and  the  fact  of  life  changes 
everything  back  to  —  ' 

"  Now,  Helen,  stop  and  listen  to  me,"  said  her  father, 
firmly.  "  In  one  sense  the  crisis  is  over,  and  you  Ve  heard 
the  news  which  I  scarcely  knew  how  to  break  to  you.  You 
say  you  will  have  strength  of  mind  to  meet  what  is  required 
of  you.  I  trust  you  may.  But  it 's  time  you  understood  the 
situation  as  far  as  I  do.  Mother's  words  show  she  's  off  the 
track  in  her  suspicion.  Nichol  is  not  to  blame  in  any  sense. 
He  is  deserving  of  all  sympathy,  and  yet  —  oh,  dear,  it  is 
such  a  complication  !  "  and  the  old  man  groaned  as  he 
thought  of  the  personality  who  best  knew  himself  as  Yankee 
Blank.  "The 'fact  is,"  he  resumed  to  his  breathless  lis- 


138         TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

teners,  "  Nichol  is  not  ill  at  all  physically.  His  mind  is 
affected —  " 

Mrs.  Kemble  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and  Helen  uttered  a 
cry  of  dismay. 

"Yes,  his  mind  is  affected  peculiarly.  He  remembers 
nothing  that  happened  before  he  was  wounded.  You  must 
realize  this,  Helen ;  you  must  prepare  yourself  for  it.  His 
loss  of  memory  is  much  more  sad  than  if  he  had  lost  an 
arm  or  a  leg.  He  remembers  only  what  he  has  picked  up 
since  his  injury." 

"Then,  then,  he's  not  insane?"  gasped  Helen. 

"  No,  no,  I  should  say  not,"  replied  her  father,  dubiously ; 
"  yet  his  words  and  manner  produce  much  the  same  effect 
as  if  he  were,  —  even  a  stronger  effect." 

"  Oh,  this  is  dreadful !  "  cried  his  wife. 

"  Dreadful  indeed,  but  not  hopeless,  you  know.  Keep  in 
mind  doctors  say  that  his  memory  may  come  back  at  any 
time ;  and  Hobart  has  the  belief  that  the  sight  and  voice  of 
Helen  will  bring  it  back." 

"God  bless  Hobart,"  said  Helen,  with  a  deep  breath, 
"  and  God  help  him  !  His  own  love  inspired  that  belief. 
He  's  right ;  I  know  he  's  right." 

"  Well,  perhaps  he  is.  I  don't  know.  I  thought  Nichol 
would  recognize  me;  but  there  was  n't  a  sign." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  cried  Helen,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
"  there  are  some  things  which  even  your  experience  and 
wisdom  fail  in.  Albert  will  know  me.  We  have  talked  long 
enough ;  now  let  us  act." 

"You  don't  realize  it  all  yet,  Helen;  you  can't.  You 
must  remember  that  Nichol  regained  consciousness  in 
a  Southern  hospital.  He  has  learned  to  talk  and  act 
very  much  like  such  soldiers  as  would  associate  with 
him." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  139 

"  The  fact  that  he  's  alive  and  that  I  now  may  restore 
him  is  enough,  papa." 

"Well,  I  want  Dr.  Barnes  present  when  you  meet  him." 

"  Certainly ;  at  least  within  call." 

"  I  must  stipulate  too,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble.  "  I  don't 
wish  the  coming  scenes  to  take  place  in  a  hotel,  and  under 
the  eyes  of  that  gossip,  Jackson.  I  don't  see  why  Hobart 
took  him  there." 

"I  do,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  standing  up  for  his  favorite. 
"  Hobart  has  already  endured  more  than  mortal  man  ought, 
yet  he  has  been  most  delicately  considerate.  No  one  but 
Jackson  and  Dr.  Barnes  know  about  Nichol  and  his  condi 
tion.  I  have  also  had  Nichol' s  father  and  mother  sent  for 
on  my  own  responsibility,  for  they  should  take  their  share 
of  the  matter.  Hobart  believes  that  Helen  can  restore 
Nichol's  memory.  This  would  simplify  everything  and  save 
many  painful  impressions.  You  see,  it's  such  an  obscure 
trouble,  and  there  should  be  no  ill-advised  blundering  in  the 
matter.  The  doctors  in  Washington  told  Hobart  that  a 
slight  shock,  or  the  sight  of  an  object  that  once  had  the 
strongest  hold  upon  his  thoughts  —  well,  you  understand." 

"  Yes,"  said  Helen,  "  I  do  understand.  Hobart  is  trying 
to  give  Albert  the  very  best  chance.  Albert  wrote  that  his 
last  earthly  thoughts  would  be  of  me.  It  is  but  natural  that 
my  presence  should  kindle  those  thoughts  again.  It  was 
like  Hobart,  who  is  almost  divine  in  his  thoughtfulness  of 
others,  to  wish  to  shield  Albert  from  the  eyes  of  even  his 
own  father  and  mother  until  he  could  know  them,  and  know 
us  all.  He  was  only  taken  to  the  hotel  that  we  all  might 
understand  and  be  prepared  to  do  our  part.  Papa,  bring 
Albert  here  and  let  his  father  and  mother  come  here  also- 
He  should  be  sacredly  shielded  in  his  infirmity,  and  given 
every  chance  to  recover  before  being  seen  by  others ;  and 


I4O         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

please,  papa,  exact  from  Jackson  a  solemn  promise  not  to 
tattle  about  Albert." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  we  have  first  a  duty  to  perform.  Mother, 
please  prepare  a  little  lunch,  and  put  a  glass  of  your  old 
currant  wine  on  the  tray.  Hobart  must  not  come  to  a  cold, 
cheerless  home.  I  '11  go  and  have  his  old  servant  up  and 
ready  to  receive  him." 

"  No,  mamma,  that  is  still  my  privilege,"  said  Helen, 
with  a  rush  of  tears.  "  Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry,  sorry  for  him  ! 
but  neither  he  nor  I  can  help  or  change  what  is,  what 's 
true." 

When  the  tray  was  ready,  she  wrote  and  sealed  these 
words  :  — 

God  bless  you,  Hobart ;  God  reward  you  !  You  have  made 
me  feel  to-night  that  earth  is  too  poor,  and  only  heaven  rich 
enough  to  reward  you. 

HELEN. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MR.  KEMBLE'S  APPEAL. 

T  T  often  happens  that  the  wife's  disposition  is  an  antidote 
to  her  husband's ;  and  this  was  fortunately  true  of  Mrs. 
Jackson.  She  was  neither  curious  nor  gossiping,  and  with 
a  quick  instinct  that  privacy  was  desired  by  Martine,  gave  at 
an  early  hour  her  orders  to  close  the  house  for  the  night. 
The  few  loungers,  knowing  that  she  was  autocratic,  slouched 
off  to  other  resorts.  The  man  and  maids  of  all  work  were 
kept  out  of  the  way,  while  she  and  her  husband  waited  on 
their  unexpected  guests.  After  Mr.  Kemble's  departure, 
the  errand-boy  was  roused  from  his  doze  behind  the  stove 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  141 

and  sent  for  Dr.  Barnes ;  then  Jackson  wrote  another  note 
at  Martine's  dictation, — 

MR.  WILLIAM  NICHOL. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  A  relative  of  yours  is  sick  at  my  house.  He 
came  on  the  evening  train.  You  and  your  wife  had  better  come 
at  once  in  the  carriage. 

Martine  retired  to  the  room  in  which  he  had  seen  Mr. 
Kemble,  that  he  might  compose  himself  before  meeting 
the  physician.  The  sound  of  Helen's  voice,  the  mere 
proximity  of  the  girl  who  at  this  hour  was  to  have  been  his 
wife  had  not  "  old  chaos  "  come  again  for  him,  were  by  no 
means  "  straws  "  in  their  final  and  crushing  weight.  Motion 
less,  yet  with  mind  verging  on  distraction,  he  sat  in  the 
cold,  dimly-lighted  room  until  aroused  by  the  voice  of  Dr. 
Barnes. 

"Why,  Hobart  !  "  cried  his  old  friend,  starting  at  the 
bloodshot  eyes  and  pallid  face  of  the  young  man,  "  what  is 
the  matter?  You  need  me,  sure  enough,  but  why  on  earth 
are  you  shivering  in  this  cold  room  at  the  hotel?" 

Martine  again  said  to  Jackson,  "  Don't  leave  him,"  and 
closed  the  door.  Then,  to  the  physician,  "  Dr.  Barnes, 
I  am  ill  and  worn  out.  I  know  it  only  too  well.  You  must 
listen  carefully  while  I  in  brief  tell  you  why  you  were  sent 
for ;  then  you  and  others  must  take  charge  and  act  as  you 
think  best.  I  'm  going  home.  I  must  have  rest  and  a 
respite.  I  must  be  by  myself;  "  and  he  rapidly  began  to 
sketch  his  experiences  in  Washington. 

"  Hold  !  "  said  the  sensible  old  doctor,  who  indulged  in 
only  a  few  strong  exclamations  of  surprise,  which  did  not 
interrupt  the  speaker,  "  hold  !  You  say  you  left  the  ward  to 
think  it  over,  after  being  convinced  that  you  had  discovered 
Nichol.  Did  you  think  it  over  quietly?" 

"  Quietly  !  "    repeated   Martine,  with  intense  bitterness. 


142          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"Would  a  man,  not  a  mummy,  think  over  such  a  thing 
quietly?  Judge  me  as  you  please,  but  I  was  tempted  as  I 
believe  never  man  was  before.  I  fought  the  Devil  till 
morning." 

"  I  thought  as  much,"  said  the  doctor,  grasping  Marline's 
hand,  then  slipping  a  finger  on  his  pulse.  "  You  fought  on 
foot  too,  didn't  you?"  . 

"  Yes,  I  walked  the  streets  as  if  demented." 

"  Of  course.  That  in  part  accounts  for  your  exhaustion. 
Have  you  slept  much  since?" 

"  Oh,  Doctor,  let  me  get  through  and  go  home  !  " 

"  No,  Hobart,  you  can't  get  through  with  me  till  I  am 
with  you.  My  dear  fellow,  do  you  think  that  I  don't  under 
stand  and  sympathize  with  you  ?  There  's  no  reason  why 
you  should  virtually  risk  your  life  for  Captain  Nichol  again. 
Take  this  dose  of  quinine  at  once,  and  then  proceed.  I 
can  catch  on  rapidly.  First  answer,  how  much  have  you 
slept  since?  " 

"  The  idea  of  sleep  !  You  can  remedy  this,  Doctor, 
after  my  part  in  this  affair  is  over.  I  must  finish  now. 
Helen  may  return,  and  I  cannot  meet  her,  nor  am  I  equal 
to  seeing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol.  My  head  feels  queer,  but 
I  '11  get  through  somehow,  if  the  strain  is  not  kept  up  too 
long;  "  and  he  finished  in  outline  his  story.  In  conclusion 
he  said,  "  You  will  understand  that  you  are  now  to  have 
charge  of  Nichol.  He  is  prepared  by  his  experience  to 
obey  you,  for  he  has  always  been  in  hospitals,  where  the 
surgeon's  will  is  law.  Except  with  physicians,  he  has  a 
sort  of  rough  waywardness,  learned  from  the  soldiers." 

"Yes,  I  understand  sufficiently  now  to  manage.  You 
put  him  in  my  charge,  then  go  home,  and  I  '11  visit  you  as 
soon  as  I  can." 

"One  word    more,  Doctor.     As  far  as  you  think   best, 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  143 

enjoin  reticence  on  Jackson.  If  the  sight  of  Helen  re 
stores  Nichol,  as  I  believe  it  will,  little  need  ever  be  said 
about  his  present  condition.  Jackson  would  not  dare  to 
disobey  a  physician's  injunction." 

"  Don't  you  dare  disobey  them,  either.  I  '11  manage 
him  too.  Come." 

Nichol  had  slept  a  good  deal  during  the  latter  part  of 
his  journey,  and  now  was  inclined  to  wake  fulness,  —  a  ten 
dency  much  increased  by  his  habit  of  waiting  on  hospital 
patients  at  night.  In  the  eager  and  curious  Jackson  he  had 
a  companion  to  his  mind,  who  stimulated  in  him  a  certain 
childlike  vanity. 

"  Hello,  Ma'tine,"  he  said,  "-yer  gittin'  tired  o'  me,  I 
reckon,  yer  off  so  much.  I  don't  keer.  This  yere  Jack 
son  's  a  lively  cuss,  en  I  'low  we  '11  chin  till  mawnin'." 

"  Yes,  Nichol,  Mr.  Jackson  is  a  good  friend  of  yours ; 
and  here  is  another  man  who  is  more  than  a  friend.  You 
remember  what  the  surgeon  at  the  hospital  said  to 
you?" 

"  I  reckon,"  replied  Nichol,  anxiously.  "  Hain't  I  minded 
yer  tetotally?  " 

"  Yes,  you  have  done  very  well  indeed,  —  remarkably  well, 
since  you  knew  I  was  not  a  doctor.  Now  this  man  is  a 
doctor,  —  the  doctor  I  was  to  bring  you  to.  You  won't 
have  to  mind  me  any  more,  but  you  must  mind  this  man, 
Dr.  Barnes,  in  all  respects,  just  as  you  did  the  doctors 
in  the  hospitals.  As  long  as  you  obey  him  carefully,  he 
will  be  very  good  to  you." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  mind,  Doctor,"  said  Nichol,  rising  and  assum 
ing  the  respectful  attitude  of  a  hospital  nurse.  "  We  uns 
wuz  soon  larned  that  't  wuz  n't  healthy  to  go  agin  the  doctor. 
When  I  wuz  Yankee  Blank,  'fo'  I  got  ter  be  cap'n,  I  forgot 
ter  give  a  Johnny  a  doze  o'  med'cine,  en  I  'm  doggoned  ef 


144          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

the  doctor  did  n't  mek  me  tek  it  myse'f.  Gee  wiz  !  sech 
a  time  ez  I  had !  Hain't  give  the  doctors  no  trouble 
sence." 

"  All  right,  Captain  Nichol,"  said  Dr.  Barnes,  quietly,  "  I 
understand  my  duties,  and  I  see  that  you  understand  yours. 
As  you  say,  doctors  must  be  obeyed,  and  I  already  see  that 
you  won't  make  me  or  yourself  any  trouble.  Good-night, 
Hobart,  I  'm  in  charge  now." 

"  Good-night,  Doctor.  Mr.  Jackson,  I  'm  sure  you  will 
carry  out  Dr.  Barnes'  wishes  implicitly." 

"  Yer  'd  better,  Jackson,"  said  Nichol,  giving  him  a  wink. 
"  A  doctor  kin  give  yer  high  ole  jinks  ef  yer  not  keerful." 

Martine  now  obeyed  the  instinct  often  so  powerful  in  the 
human  breast  as  well  as  in  dumb  animals,  and  sought  the 
covert,  the  refuge  of  his  home,  caring  little  whether  he  was 
to  live  or  die.  When  he  saw  the  lighted  windows  of  Mr. 
Kemble's  residence,  he  moaned  as  if  in  physical  pain.  A 
sudden  and  immeasurable  longing  to  see,  to  speak  with 
Helen  once  before  she  was  again  irrevocably  committed  to 
Nichol,  possessed  him.  He  even  went  to  her  gate  to  carry 
out  his  impulse,  then  curbed  himself  and  returned  resolutely 
to  his  dwelling.  As  soon  as  his  step  was  on  the  porch,  the 
door  opened  and  Mr.  Kemble  gave  him  the  warm  grasp  of 
friendship.  Without  a  word,  the  two  men  entered  the 
sitting-room,  sat  down  by  the  ruddy  fire,  and  looked  at 
each  other,  Martine  with  intense,  questioning  anxiety  in 
his  haggard  face.  The  banker  nodded  gravely  as  he  said, 
"Yes,  she  knows." 

"It's  as  I  said  it  would  be?"  Martine  added  huskily, 
after  a  moment  or  two. 

"  Well,  my  friend,  she  said  you  would  understand  her 
better  than  any  one  else.  She  wrote  you  this  note." 

Martine's  hands  so  trembled  that  he  could  scarcely  break 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  j^ 

the  seal.  He  sat  looking  at  the  tear-blurred  words  some 
little  time,  and  grew  evidently  calmer,  then  faltered,  "  Yes, 
it 's  well  to  remember  God  at  such  a  time.  He  has  laid 
heavy  burdens  upon  me.  He  is  responsible  for  them,  not 
I.  If  I  break,  he  also  will  be  responsible." 

"  Hobart,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  earnestly,  "  you  must  not 
break  under  this,  for  our  sake  as  well  as  your  own.  I  have 
the  presentiment  that  we  shall  all  need  you  yet,  my  poor 
girl  perhaps  most  of  all.  She  doesn't,  she  can't  realize 
it.  Now,  the  dead  is  alive  again.  Old  girlish  impulses 
and  feelings  are  asserting  themselves.  As  is  natural,  she  is 
deeply  excited ;  but  this  tidal  wave  of  feeling  will  pass,  and 
then  she  will  have  to  face  both  the  past  and  future.  I  know 
her  well  enough  to  be  sure  she  could  never  be  happy  if  this 
thing  wrecked  you.  And  then,  Hobart,"  and  the  old  man 
sank  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  « suppose  —  suppose  Nichol 
continues  the  same." 

"  He  cannot,"  cried  Martine,  almost  desperately.  «  Oh, 
Mr.  Kemble,  don't  suggest  any  hope  for  me.  My  heart 
tells  me  there  is  none,  that  there  should  not  be  any.  No, 
she  loved  him  as  I  have  loved  her  from  childhood.  She  is 
right.  I  Jo  understand  her  so  well  that  I  know  what  the 
future  will  be." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  firmly,  as  he  rose,  "she  shall 
never  marry  him  as  he  is,  with  my  consent.  I  don't  feel 
your  confidence  about  Helen's  power  to  restore  him.  I  tell 
you,  Hobart,  I  'm  in  sore  straits.  Helen  is  the  apple  of  my 
eye.  She  is  the  treasure  of  our  old  age.  God  knows  I 
remember  what  you  have  done  for  her  and  for  us  in  the 
past;  and  I  feel  that  we  shall  need  you  in  the  future. 
You  've  become  like  a  son  to  mother  and  me,  and  you  must 
stand  by  us  still.  Our  need  will  keep  you  up  and  rally  you 
better  than  all  Dr.  Barnes'  medicine.  I  know  you  well 


10 


146         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

enough  to  know  that.  But  take  the  medicine  all  the  same ; 
and  above  all  things,  don't  give  way  to  anything  like  reck 
lessness  and  despair.  As  you  say,  God  has  imposed  the 
burden.  Let  him  give  you  the  strength  to  bear  it,  and 
other  people's  burdens  too,  as  you  have  in  the  past.  I  must 
go  now.  Don't  fail  me." 

Wise  old  Mr.  Kemble  had  indeed  proved  the  better  phy 
sician.  His  misgivings,  fears,  and  needs,  combined  with 
his  honest  affection,  had  checked  the  cold,  bitter  flood  of 
despair  which  had  been  overwhelming  Martine.  The  mor 
bid  impression  that  he  would  be  only  another  complication, 
and  of  necessity  an  embarrassment  to  Helen  and  her  family, 
was  in  a  measure  removed.  Mere  words  of  general  condo 
lence  would  not  have  helped  him ;  an  appeal  like  that  to 
the  exhausted  soldier,  and  the  thought  that  the  battle  for 
him  was  not  yet  over,  stirred  the  deep  springs  of  his  nature 
and  slowly  kindled  the  purpose  to  rally  and  be  ready.  He 
rose,  ate  a  little  of  the  food,  drank  the  wine,  then  looked 
around  the  beautiful  apartment  prepared  for  her  who  was  to 
have  been  his  wife.  "  I  have  grown  weak  and  reckless,"  he 
said.  "  I  ought  to  have  known  her  well  enough  —  I  do 
know  her  so  well  —  as  to  be  sure  that  I  would  cloud  her 
happiness  if  this  thing  destroyed  me." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"YOU   MUST   REMEMBER." 

TV/fR-  AND  MRS.  NICHOL  wonderingly  yet  promptly 
•*•  complied  with  the  request  for  their  presence,  mean 

time  casting  about  in  their  minds  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
relative  who  had  summoned  them  so  unexpectedly.     Mr. 


FOUND  YET  LOST.  147 

Kemble  arrived  at  the  hotel  at  about  the  same  moment  as 
they  did,  and  Jackson  was  instructed  to  keep  the  carriage  in 
waiting.  "  It  was  I  who  sent  for  you  and  your  wife,"  said 
the  banker.  "  Mr.  Martine,  if  possible,  would  have  given 
you  cause  for  a  great  joy  only ;  but  I  fear  it  must  be  tem 
pered  with  an  anxiety  which  I  trust  will  not  be  long  con 
tinued  ;  "  and  he  led  the  way  into  the  parlor. 

"Is  it  —  can  it  be  about  Albert?"  asked  Mrs.  Nichol, 
trembling,  and  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Nichol.  Try  to  keep  your  fortitude,  for  per 
haps  his  welfare  depends  upon  it." 

"  Oh,  God  be  praised  !  The  hope  of  this  never  wholly 
left  me,  because  they  did  n't  find  his  body." 

Dr.  Barnes  came  down  at  once,  and  with  Mr.  Kemble 
tried  to  soothe  the  strong  emotions  of  the  parents,  while  at 
the  same  time  enlightening  them  as  to  their  son's  discovery 
and  condition. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Nichol,  in  strong  emphasis ;  "  Hobart 
Martine  is  one  of  a  million." 

"  I  think  he  ought  to  have  brought  Albert  right  to  me 
first,"  Mrs.  Nichol  added,  shaking  her  head  and  wiping  her 
eyes.  "After  all,  a  mother's  claim  —  " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Nichol,"  interrupted  Dr.  Barnes,  "  there 
was  no  thought  of  undervaluing  your  claim  on  the  part  of 
our  friend  Hobart.  He  has  taken  what  he  believed,  and 
what  physicians  led  him  to  believe  was  the  best  course  to 
restore  your  son.  Besides,  Mr.  Martine  is  a  very  sick  man. 
Even  now  he  needs  my  attention  more  than  Captain  Nichol. 
You  must  realize  that  he  was  to  have  married  Miss  Kemble 
to-day ;  yet  he  brings  back  your  son,  sends  for  Mr.  Kemble 
in  order  that  his  daughter,  as  soon  as  she  can  realize  the 
strange  truth,  may  exert  her  power.  He  himself  has  not 
seen  the  girl  who  was  to  have  been  his  bride." 


148  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Wife,  wife,"  said  Mr.  Nichol,  brokenly,  "  no  mortal 
man  could  do  more  for  us  than  Hobart  Martine,  God  bless 
him  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Nichol,"  began  Mr.  Kemble,  "  my  wife  and  Helen 
both  unite  in  the  request  that  you  and  your  husband  bring 
your  son  at  once  to  our  house ;  perhaps  you  would  rather 
meet  him  in  the  privacy  —  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  she  cried,  "  I  cannot  wait.  Please  do  not 
think  I  am  insensible  to  all  this  well-meant  kindness ;  but  a 
mother's  heart  cannot  wait.  He  '11  know  me,  —  me  who 
bore  him  and  carried  him  on  my  breast." 

"  Mrs.  Nichol,  you  shall  see  him  at  once,"  said  the  doc 
tor.  "  I  hope  it  will  be  as  you  say ;  but  I  'm  compelled  to 
tell  you  that  you  maybe  disappointed.  There's  no  certainty 
that  this  trouble  will  pass  away  at  once  under  any  one's  influ 
ence.  You  and  your  husband  come  with  me.  Mr.  Kemble, 
I  will  send  Jackson  down,  and  so  secure  the  privacy  which 
you  would  kindly  provide.  I  will  be  present,  for  I  may  be 
needed." 

He  led  the  way,  the  mother  following  with  the  impetuosity 
and  abandon  of  maternal  love,  and  the  father  with  stronger 
and  stranger  emotions  than  he  had  ever  known,  but  re 
strained  in  a  manner  natural  to  a  quiet,  reticent  man.  They 
were  about  to  greet  one  on  whom  they  had  once  centred 
their  chief  hopes  and  affection,  yet  long  mourned  as  dead. 
It  is  hard  to  imagine  the  wild  tumult  of  their  feelings.  Not 
merely  by  words,  but  chiefly  by  impulse,  immediate  action, 
could  they  reveal  how  profoundly  they  were  moved. 

With  kindly  intention,  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the 
apartment,  the  doctor  began,  "  Mr.  Jackson,  please  leave 
us  a  few  —  " 

Mrs.  Nichol  saw  her  son  and  rushed  upon  him,  crying, 
"  Albert,  Albert !  "  It  was  enough  at  that  moment  that  she 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  149 

recognized  him ;  and  the  thought  that  he  would  not  recog 
nize  her  was  banished.  With  an  intuition  of  heart  beyond 
all  reasoning,  she  felt  that  he  who  had  drawn  his  life  from 
her  must  know  her  and  respond  to  nature's  first  strong  tie. 

In  surprise,  Nichol  had  risen,  then  was  embarrassed  to 
find  an  elderly  woman  sobbing  on  his  breast  and  addressing 
him  in  broken,  endearing  words  by  a  name  utterly  un 
familiar.  He  looked  wonderingly  at  his  father,  who  stood 
near,  trembling  and  regarding  him  through  tear-dimmed 
eyes  with  an  affectionate  interest,  impressive  even  to  his 
limited  perceptions. 

"Doctor, "he  began  over  his  mother's  head,  "what  in 
thunder  does  all  this  here  mean  ?  Me  'n'  Jackson  was  chin- 
nin'  comft'bly,  when  sud'n  you  uns  let  loose  on  me  two 
crazy  old  parties  I  never  seed  ner  yeared  on.  Never  had 
folks  go  on  so  'bout  me  befo'.  Beats  even  that  Hob't 
Ma'tine,"  and  he  showed  signs  of  rising  irritation. 

"  Albert,  Albert !  "  almost  shrieked  Mrs.  Nichol,  "  don't 
you  know  me,  —  me,  your  own  mother?" 

"  Naw." 

At  the  half-indignant,  incredulous  tone,  yet  more  than 
all  at  the  strange  accent  and  form  of  this  negative,  the  poor 
woman  was  almost  beside  herself.  "  Merciful  God  !  "  she 
cried,  "  this  cannot  be ;  "  and  she  sank  into  a  chair,  sobbing 
almost  hysterically. 

For  reasons  of  his  own,  Dr.  Barnes  did  not  interfere. 
Nature  in  powerful  manifestations  was  actuating  the  parents  ; 
and  he  decided,  now  that  things  had  gone  so  far,  to  let  the 
entire  energy  of  uncurbed  emotion,  combined  with  all  the 
mysterious  affinity  of  the  closest  kinship,  exert  its  influence 
on  the  clogged  brain  of  his  patient. 

For  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Nichol  was  too  greatly  over 
come  to  comprehend  anything  clearly;  her  husband,  on 


150          TAKEN  ALIVE:  'AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

the  other  hand,  was  simply  wrought  up  to  his  highest  ca 
pacity  for  action.  His  old  instinct  of  authority  returned, 
and  he  seized  his  son's  hand  and  began,  "  Now,  see  here, 
Albert,  you  were  wounded  in  your  head  —  " 

"  Yes,  right  yere,"  interrupted  Nichol,  pointing  to  his 
scar.  "  I  knows  all  'bout  that,  but  I  don't  like  these  goin's 
on,  ez  ef  I  wuz  a  nachel-bawn  fool,  en  had  ter  bleve  all 
folks  sez.  I  've  been  taken  in  too  often.  When  I  wuz 
with  the  Johnnies  they  'd  say  ter  me,  '  Yankee  Blank,  see 
that  ar  critter?  That's  a  elephant.'  When  I'd  call  it  a 
elephant,  they  'd  larf  an'  larf  till  I  flattened  out  one  feller's 
nose.  I  dunno  nothin'  'bout  elephants ;  but  the  critter  they 
pinted  at  wuz  a  cow.  Then  one  day  they  set  me  ter  scrub- 
bin'  a  nigger  to  mek  'im  white,  en  all  sech  doin's,  till  the 
head-doctor  stopped  the  hull  blamed  nonsense.  S'pose  I 
be  a  cur'ous  chap.  I  ain't  a  nachel-bawn  ijit.  When  folks 
begin  ter  go  on,  en  do  en  say  things  I  kyant  see  through, 
then  I  stands  off  en  sez,  '  Lemme  'lone.'  The  hospital 
doctors  would  n't  'low  any  foolin'  with  me  't  all." 

"  I  'm  not  allowing  any  fooling  with  you,"  said  Dr.  Barnes, 
firmly.  "  I  wish  you  to  listen  to  that  man  and  woman,  and 
believe  all  they  say.  The  hospital  doctors  would  give  you 
the  same  orders." 

"  All  right,  then,"  assented  Nichol,  with  a  sort  of  grimace 
of  resignation.  "  Fire  away,  old  man,  an'  git  through  with 
yer  yarn  so  Jackson  kin  come  back.  I  wish  this  woman 
would  n't  take  on  so.  Hit  makes  me  orful  oncomf't'ble, 
doggoned  ef  hit  don't." 

The  rapid  and  peculiar  utterance,  the  seemingly  unfeeling 
words  of  his  son,  stung  the  father  into  an  ecstasy  of  grief 
akin  to  anger.  A  man  stood  before  him,  as  clearly  recog 
nized  as  his  own  image  in  a  mirror.  The  captain  was  not 
out  of  his  mind  in  any  familiar  sense  of  the  word ;  he 


FO UND    YET  LOST.  151 

remembered  distinctly  what  had  happened  for  months  past. 
He  must  recall,  he  must  be  made  to  recollect  the  vital  truths 
of  his  life,  on  which  not  only  his  happiness  but  that  of 
others  depended.  Although  totally  ignorant  of  what  the 
wisest  can  explain  but  vaguely,  Mr.  Nichol  was  bent  on 
restoring  his  son  by  the  sheer  force  of  will,  making  him 
remember  by  telling  him  what  he  should  and  must  recall. 
This  he  tried  to  do  with  strong,  eager  insistence.  "  Why, 
Albert,"  he  urged,  "I'm  your  father;  and  that's  your 
mother." 

Nichol  shook  his  head  and  looked  at  the  doctor,  who 
added  gravely,  "That's  all  true." 

"Yes,"  resumed  Mr.  Nichol,  with  an  energy  and  earn 
estness  of  utterance  which  compelled  attention.  "  Now 
listen  to  reason.  As  I  was  saying,  you  were  wounded  in 
the  head,  and  you  have  forgotten  what  happened  before  you 
were  hurt.  But  you  must  remember,  you  must,  indeed,  or 
you  will  break  your  mother's  heart  and  mine  too." 

"  But  I  tell  yer,  I  kyant  reckerlect  a  thing  befo'  I  kinder 
waked  up  in  the  hospital,  en  the  Johnnies  call  me  Yankee 
Blank.  I  jes'  wish  folks  would  lemme  alone  on  that  pint. 
Hit  allus  bothers  me  en  makes  me  mad.  How  kin  I  recker 
lect  when  I  kyant?  "  and  he  began  to  show  signs  of  strong 
vexation. 

Dr.  Barnes  was  about  to  interfere  when  Mrs.  Nichol,  who 
had  grown  calmer,  rose,  took  her  son's  hand,  and  said 
brokenly,  "  Albert,  look  me  in  the  face,  your  mother's 
face,  and  try,  try  with  all  your  heart  and  soul  and  mind. 
Don't  you  remember  me  ?  " 

It  was  evident  that  her  son  did  try.  His  brow  wrinkled 
in  the  perplexed  effort,  and  he  looked  at  her  fixedly  for  a 
moment  or  more  ;  but  no  magnetic  current  from  his  mother's 
hand,  no  suggestion  of  the  dear  features  which  had  bent 


152          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

over  him  in  childhood  and  turned  toward  him  in  love  and 
pride  through  subsequent  years  found  anything  in  his 
arrested  consciousness  answering  to  her  appeal. 

The  effort  and  its  failure  only  irritated  him,  and  he  broke 
out,  "  Now  look  yere,  I  be  as  I  be.  What 's  the  use  of 
all  these  goin's  on?  Doctor,  if  you  sez  these  folks  are  my 
father  and  mother,  so  be  it.  I  'm  learning  somethin'  new 
all  the  time.  This  ain't  no  mo'  quar,  I  s'pose,  than  some 
other  things.  I  Ve  got  to  mind  a  doctor,  for  I  've  learned 
that  much  ef  I  hain't  nuthin'  else,  but  I  want  you  uns  to 
know  that  I  won't  stan'  no  mo'  foolin'.  Doctors  don't  fool 
me,  en  they  've  got  the  po'r  ter  mek  a  feller  do  ez  they  sez, 
but  other  folks  is  got  ter  be  keerful  how  they  uses  me." 

Mrs.  Nichol  again  sank  into  her  chair  and  wept  bitterly ; 
her  husband  at  last  remained  silent  in  a  sort  of  inward,  im 
potent  rage  of  grief.  There  was  their  son,  alive  and  in 
physical  health,  yet  between  him  and  them  was  a  viewless 
barrier  which  they  could  not  break  through. 

The  strange  complications,  the  sad  thwartings  of  hope 
which  must  result  unless  he  was  restored,  began  to  loom 
already  in  the  future. 

Dr.  Barnes  now  came  forward  and  said,  "  Captain 
Nichol,  you  are  as  you  are  at  this  moment,  but  you  must 
know  that  you  are  not  what  you  were  once.  We  are  trying 
to  restore  you  to  your  old  self.  You  'd  be  a  great  deal 
better  off  if  we  succeed.  You  must  help  us  all  you  can. 
You  must  be  patient,  and  try  all  the  time  to  recollect.  You 
know  I  am  not  deceiving  you,  but  seeking  to  help  you. 
You  don't  like  this.  That  doesn't  matter.  Didn't  you 
see  doctors  do  many  things  in  hospitals  which  the  patients 
didn't  like?" 

"  I  reckon,"  replied  Nichol,  growing  reasonable  at  once 
when  brought  on  familiar  ground. 


FO UND   YE T  LOST.  1 5  3 

"  Well,  you  are  my  patient.  I  may  have  to  do  some 
disagreeable  things,  but  they  won't  hurt  you.  It  won't  be 
like  taking  off  an  arm  or  a  leg.  You  have  seen  that  done, 
I  suppose?  " 

"  You  bet !  "  was  the  eager,  proud  reply.  "  I  used  to 
hold  the  fellows  when  they  squirmed." 

"Now  hold  yourself.  Be  patient  and  good-natured. 
While  we  are  about  it,  I  want  to  make  every  appeal  possi 
ble  to  your  lost  memory,  and  I  order  you  to  keep  on  trying 
to  remember  till  I  say,  'Through  for  the  present.'  If  we 
succeed,  you  '11  thank  me  all  the  days  of  your  life.  Any 
how,  you  must  do  as  I  say." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that." 

"  Well,  then,  your  name  is  Captain  Nichol.  This  is  Mr. 
Nichol,  your  father ;  this  lady  is  your  mother.  Call  them 
father  and  mother  when  you  speak  to  them.  Always  speak 
kindly  and  pleasantly.  They  '11  take  you  to  a  pleasant  home 
when  I  'm  through  with  you,  and  you  must  mind  them. 
They  '11  be  good  to  you  every  way." 

Nichol  grinned  acquiescence  and  said,  "  All  right, 
Doctor." 

"  Now  you  show  your  good  sense.  We  '11  have  you  sound 
and  happy  yet."  The  doctor  thought  a  moment  and  then 
asked,  "  Mr.  Nichol,  I  suppose  that  after  our  visit  to  Mr. 
Kemble,  you  and  your  wife  would  prefer  to  take  your  son 
home  with  you?  " 

"  Certainly,"  was  the  prompt  response. 

"  I  would  advise  you  to  do  so.  After  our  next  effort, 
however  it  results,  we  all  will  need  rest  and  time  for  thought. 
Captain,  remain  here  a  few  moments  with  your  father  and 
mother.  Listen  good-naturedly  and  answer  pleasantly  to 
whatever  they  may  say  to  you.  I  will  be  back  soon." 


154         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 
CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  I  'M   HELEN." 

1P\R.  BARNES  descended  the  stairs  to  the  parlor  where 
^-^  Mr.  Kemble  impatiently  awaited  him.  "Well?" 
said  the  banker,  anxiously. 

"  I  will  explain  while  on  the  way  to  your  house.  The 
carriage  is  still  ready,  I  suppose?  "  to  Jackson. 

"Yes,"  was  the  eager  reply;  "how  did  he  take  the 
meeting  of  his  parents?" 

"  In  the  main  as  I  feared.  He  does  not  know  them  yet. 
Mr.  Jackson,  you  and  I  are  somewhat  alike  in  one  of  our 
duties.  I  never  talk  about  my  patients.  If  I  did,  I  ought 
to  be  drummed  out  of  the  town  instead  of  ever  being  called 
upon  again.  Of  course  you  feel  that  you  should  not  talk 
about  your  guests.  You  can  understand  why  the  parties 
concerned  in  this  matter  would  not  wish  to  have  it  discussed 
in  the  village." 

"Certainly,  Doctor,  certainly,"  replied  Jackson,  reddening, 
for  he  knew  something  of  his  reputation  for  gossip.  "  This 
is  no  ordinary  case." 

"  No,  it  is  not.  Captain  Nichol  and  his  friends  would 
never  forgive  any  one  who  did  not  do  right  by  them  now. 
In  about  fifteen  minutes  or  so  I  will  return.  Have  the  car 
riage  wait  for  me  at  Mr.  Kemble's  till  again  wanted.  You 
may  go  back  to  the  captain  and  do  your  best  to  keep  him 
wide-awake." 

Jackson  accompanied  them  to  the  conveyance  and  said 
to  the  man  on  the  box,  "  Obey  all  Dr.  Barnes's  orders." 

As  soon  as  the  two  men  were  seated,  the  physician  began, 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  155 

"  Our  first  test  has  failed  utterly ;  "  and  he  briefly  narrated 
what  had  occurred,  concluding,  "  I  fear  your  daughter  will 
have  no  better  success.  Still,  it  is  perhaps  wise  to  do  all 
we  can,  on  the  theory  that  these  sudden  shocks  may  start 
up  the  machinery  of  memory.  Nichol  is  excited ;  such 
powers  as  he  possesses  are  stimulated  to  their  highest  activ 
ity,  and  he  is  evidently  making  a  strong  effort  to  recall  the 
past.  I  therefore  now  deem  it  best  to  increase  the  pressure 
on  his  brain  to  the  utmost.  If  the  obstruction  does  not 
give  way,  I  see  no  other  course  than  to  employ  the  skill  of 
experts  and  trust  to  the  healing  processes  of  time." 

"  I  am  awfully  perplexed,  Doctor,"  was  the  reply.  "You 
must  be  firm  with  me  on  one  point,  and  you  know  your 
opinion  will  have  great  weight.  Under  no  sentimental  sense 
of  duty,  or  even  of  affection,  must  Helen  marry  Nichol  un 
less  he  is  fully  restored  and  given  time  to  prove  there  is  no 
likelihood  of  any  return  of  this  infirmity." 

"  I  agree  with  you  emphatically.  There  is  no  reason  for 
such  self-sacrifice  on  your  daughter's  part.  Nichol  would 
not  appreciate  it.  He  is  not  an  invalid,  on  the  contrary,  a 
strong,  muscular  man,  abundantly  able  to  take  care  of  him 
self  under  the  management  of  his  family." 

"  He  has  my  profound  sympathy,"  continued  Mr.  Kemble, 
"  but  giving  that  unstintedly  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
giving  him  my  only  child." 

"  Certainly.  Perhaps  we  need  not  say  very  much  to 
Miss  Helen  on  this  point  at  present.  Unless  he  becomes 
his  old  self  she  will  feel  that  she  has  lost  him  more  truly 
than  if  he  were  actually  dead.  The  only  deeply-perplexing 
feature  in  the  case  is  its  uncertainty.  He  may  be  all  right 
before  morning,  and  he  may  never  recall  a  thing  that  hap 
pened  before  the  explosion  of  that  shell." 

The  carriage  stopped,  and  Mr.  Kemble  hastily  led  the  way 


156          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

to  his  dwelling.  Helen  met  them  at  the  door.  "  Oh,  how 
long  you  have  been!"  she  protested;  "I've  just  been 
tortured  by  suspense." 

Dr.  Barnes  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  the  par 
lor.  "  Miss  Helen,"  he  said  gravely,  "if  you  are  not  care 
ful  you  will  be  another  patient  on  my  hands.  Sad  as  is 
Captain  Nichol's  case,  he  at  least  obeys  me  implicitly; 
so  must  you.  Your  face  is  flushed,  your  pulse  feverish, 
and  — " 

"  Doctor,"  cried  the  girl,  "  you  can't  touch  the  disease 
till  you  remove  the  cause.  Why  is  he  kept  so  long  from 
me?" 

"  Helen,  child,  you  must  believe  that  the  doctor  —  that 
we  all  —  are  doing  our  best  for  you  and  Nichol,"  said  Mr. 
Kemble,  anxiously.  "  His  father  and  mother  came  to  the 
hotel.  It  was  but  natural  that  they  should  wish  to  see  him 
at  once.  How  would  we  feel?  " 

"  Come,  Helen,  dear,  you  must  try  to  be  more  calm," 
urged  the  mother,  gently,  with  her  arm  around  her  daughter's 
neck.  "  Doctor,  can't  you  give  her  something  to  quiet  her 
nerves?" 

"  Miss  Helen,  like  the  captain,  is  going  to  do  just  as  I 
say,  are  n't  you?  You  can  do  more  for  yourself  than  I  can 
do  for  you.  Remember,  you  must  act  intelligently  and  co 
operate  with  me.  His  father,  and  especially  his  mother, 
exhibited  the  utmost  degree  of  emotion  and  made  the 
strongest  appeals  without  effect.  Now  we  must  try  different 
tactics.  All  must  be  quiet  and  nothing  occur  to  confuse  or 
irritate  him." 

"  Ah,  how  little  you  all  understand  me  !  The  moment 
you  give  me  a  chance  to  act  I  can  be  as  calm  as  you  are. 
It 's  this  waiting,  this  torturing  suspense  that  I  cannot  en 
dure.  Hobart  would  not  have  permitted  it.  He  knows,  he 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  157 

understands.  Every  effort  will  fail  till  Albert  sees  me.  It 
will  be  a  cause  for  lasting  gratitude  to  us  both  that  I  should 
be  the  one  to  restore  him.  Now  let  me  manage.  My 
heart  will  guide  me  better  than  your  science." 

"What  will  you  do?"  inquired  her  father,  in  deep 
solicitude. 

"  See,  here  's  his  picture,"  she  replied,  taking  it  from  a 
table  near,  —  "  the  one  he  gave  me  just  before  he  marched 
away.  Let  him  look  at  that  and  recall  himself.  Then  I 
will  enter.  Oh,  I  've  planned  it  all !  My  self-control  will 
be  perfect.  Would  I  deserve  the  name  of  woman  if  I  were 
weak  or  hysterical  ?  No,  I  would  do  my  best  to  rescue  any 
man  from  such  a  misfortune,  much  more  Albert,  who  has 
such  sacred  claims." 

"  That 's  a  good  idea  of  yours  about  the  photograph. 
Well,  I  guess  I  must  let  Nature  have  her  own  way  again,  only 
in  this  instance  I  advise  quiet  methods." 

"  Trust  me,  Doctor,  and  you  won't  regret  it." 

"  Nerve  yourself  then  to  do  your  best,  but  prepare  to  be 
disappointed  for  the  present.  I  do  not  and  cannot  share  in 
your  confidence." 

"Of  course  you  cannot,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  which 
illuminated  her  face  into  rare  beauty.  "  Only  love  and  faith 
could  create  my  confidence." 

"  Miss  Helen,"  was  the  grave  response,  "  would  love 
and  faith  restore  Captain  Nichol's  right  arm  if  he  had 
lost  it?" 

"  Oh,  but  that 's  different,"  she  faltered. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not.  We  are  experiment 
ing.  There  may  be  a  physical  cause  obstructing  memory 
which  neither  you  nor  any  one  can  now  remove.  Kindness 
only  leads  me  to  temper  your  hope." 

"  Doctor,"  she  said  half-desperately,  "  it  is  not  hope ;  it 


158          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

is  belief.  I  could  not  feel  as  I  do  if  I  were  to  be  disap 
pointed." 

"Ah,  Miss  Helen,  disappointment  is  a  very  common 
experience.  I  must  stop  a  moment  and  see  one  who  has 
learned  this  truth  pretty  thoroughly.  Then  I  will  bring 
Nichol  and  his  parents  at  once." 

Tears  filled  her  eyes.  "  Yes,  I  know,"  she  sighed  ;  "  my 
heart  just  bleeds  for  him,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  Were  I  not 
sure  that  Hobart  understands  me  better  than  any  one  else  I 
should  be  almost  distracted.  This  very  thought  of  him 
nerves  me.  Think  what  he  did  for  Albert  from  a  hard 
sense  of  duty.  Can  I  fail?  Good-by,  and  please,  please 
hasten." 

Martine  rose  to  greet  the  physician  with  a  clear  eye  and 
a  resolute  face.  "  Why,  why  !  "  cried  Dr.  Barnes,  cheerily, 
"you  look  a  hundred  per  cent  better.  That  quinine  —  " 

"  There,  Doctor,  I  don't  undervalue  your  drugs ;  but  Mr. 
Kemble  has  been  to  see  me  and  appealed  to  me  for  help,  — 
to  still  be  on  hand  if  needed.  Come,  I  Ve  had  my  hour 
for  weakness.  I  am  on  the  up-grade  now.  Tell  me  how 
far  the  affair  has  progressed." 

"  Have  n't  time,  Hobart.  Since  Mr.  Kemble's  treatment 
is  so  efficacious,  I  '11  continue  it.  You  will  be  needed,  you 
will  indeed,  no  matter  how  it  all  turns  out.  I  won't  abandon 
my  drugs,  either.  Here,  take  this." 

Martine  took  the  medicine  as  administered.  "  Now 
when  you  feel  drowsy,  go  to  sleep,"  added  the  doctor. 

"Tell  me  one  thing,  —  has  she  seen  him  yet?  " 

"  No  ;  his  father  and  mother  have,  and  he  does  not  know 
them.  It 's  going  to  be  a  question  of  time,  I  fear." 

"  Helen  will  restore  him." 

"  So  she  believes,  or  tries  to.  I  mercifully  shook  her 
faith  a  little.  Well,  she  feels  for  you,  old  fellow.  The  belief 


FOUND    VET  LOST.  159 

that  you  understand  her  better  than  any  one  has  great  sus 
taining  power." 

"  Say  I  won't  fail  her ;  but  I  entreat  that  you  soon  let  me 
know  the  result  of  the  meeting." 

"  I  '11  come  in,"  assented  the  doctor,  as  he  hastily  de 
parted.  Then  he  added  sotto  voce,  "  If  you  hear  anything 
more  under  twelve  or  fifteen  hours,  I  'm  off  my  reckoning." 

Re-entering  the  carriage,  he  was  driven  rapidly  to  the 
hotel.  Jackson  had  played  his  part,  and  had  easily  induced 
Nichol  to  recount  his  hospital  experience  in  the  presence 
of  his  parents,  who  listened  in  mingled  wonder,  grief,  and 
impotent  protest. 

"  Captain,  put  on  your  overcoat  and  hat  and  come  with 
me,"  said  the  doctor,  briskly.  "Your  father  and  mother 
will  go  with  us." 

"Good-by,  Jackson,"  said  Nichol,  cordially.  "Yer  a 
lively  cuss,  en  I  hopes  we  '11  have  a  chaince  to  chin  agin." 

With  a  blending  of  hope  and  of  fear,  his  parents  followed 
him.  The  terrible  truth  of  his  insensibility  to  all  that  he 
should  recognize  and  remember  became  only  the  more  ap 
palling  as  they  comprehended  it.  While  it  lost  none  of  its 
strangeness,  they  were  compelled  to  face  and  to  accept  it  as 
they  could  not  do  at  first. 

"  Now,  Captain,"  said  the  doctor,  after  they  were  seated  in 
the  carriage,  "  listen  carefully  to  me.  It  is  necessary  that 
you  recall  what  happened  before  you  were  wounded.  I  tell 
you  that  you  must  do  it  if  you  can,  and  you  know  doctors 
must  be  obeyed." 

"  Look  yere,  Doctor,  ain't  I  a-tryin'  ?  but  I  tell  yer  hit 's 
like  tryin'  ter  lift  myself  out  o'  my  own  boots." 

"  Mind,  now,  I  don't  say  you  must  remember,  only  try 
your  best.  You  can  do  that?" 

"I  reckon." 


160         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Well,  you  are  going  to  the  house  of  an  old  friend  who 
knew  you  well  before  you  were  hurt.  You  must  pay  close 
heed  to  all  she  says  just  as  you  would  to  me.  You  must 
not  say  any  rude,  bad  words,  such  as  soldiers  often  use,  but 
listen  to  every  word  she  says.  Perhaps  you  '11  know  her 
as  soon  as  you  see  her.  Now  I  've  prepared  you.  I  won't 
be  far  off." 

"  Don't  leave  me,  Doctor.  I  jes  feels  nachelly  muxed  up 
en  mad  when  folks  pester  me  'bout  what  I  kyant  do." 

"You  must  not  get  angry  now,  I  can  tell  you.  That 
would  never  do  at  all.  I  forbid  it." 

"  There,  there  now,  Doctor,  I  won't,  doggone  me  ef  I 
will,"  Nichol  protested  anxiously. 

Mr.  Kemble  met  them  at  the  door,  and  the  captain 
recognized  him  instantly. 

"  Why,  yere  's  that  sensible  ole  feller  what  did  n't  want  to 
ast  no  questions,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  You  are  right,  Captain  Nichol,  I  have  no  questions  to 
ask." 

"  Well,  ef  folks  wuz  all  like  you  I  'd  have  a  comf  t'ble 
time." 

"  Come  with  me,  Captain,"  said  the  physician,  leading 
the  way  into  the  parlor.  Mr.  Kemble  silently  ushered  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Nichol  into  the  sitting-room  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hall  and  placed  them  in  the  care  of  his  wife.  He 
then  went  into  the  back  parlor  in  which  was  Helen,  now 
quiet  as  women  so  often  are  in  emergencies.  Through  a 
slight  opening  between  the  sliding-doors  she  looked,  with 
tightly  clasped  hands  and  parted  lips,  at  her  lover.  At 
first  she  was  conscious  of  little  else  except  the  overwhelm 
ing  truth  that  before  her  was  one  she  had  believed  dead. 
Then  again  surged  up  with  blinding  force  the  old  feeling 
which  had  possessed  her  when  she  saw  him  last,  —  when  he 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  l6l 

had  impressed  his  farewell  kiss  upon  her  lips.  Remember 
ing  the  time  for  her  to  act  was  almost  at  hand,  she  became 
calm,  —  more  from  the  womanly  instinct  to  help  him  than 
from  the  effort  of  her  will. 

Dr.  Barnes  said  to  Nichol,  "  Look  around.  Don't  you 
think  you  have  seen  this  room  before  ?  Take  your  time  and 
try  to  remember." 

The  captain  did  as  he  was  bidden,  but  soon  shook  his 
head.  "  Hit 's  right  purty,  but  I  don't  reckerlect." 

"  Well,  sit  down  here,  then,  and  look  at  that  picture. 
Who  is  itj>" 

"  Why  hit 's  me,  —  me  dressed  up  as  cap'n,"  ejaculated 
Nichol,  delightedly. 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  way  you  looked  and  dressed  before 
you  were  wounded." 

"  How  yer  talk  !  This  beats  anythin'  I  ever  yeared  from 
the  Johnnies." 

"  Now,  Captain  Nichol,  you  see  we  are  not  deceiving  you. 
We  called  you  captain.  There  's  your  likeness,  taken  be 
fore  you  were  hurt  and  lost  your  memory,  and  you  can  see 
for  yourself  that  you  were  a  captain.  You  must  think 
how  much  there  is  for  you  to  try  to  remember.  Before  you 
went  to  the  war,  long  before  you  got  hurt,  you  gave  this 
likeness  of  yourself  to  a  young  lady  that  you  thought  a 
great  deal  of.  Can't  you  recall  something  about  it?" 

Nichol  wrinkled  his  scarred  forehead,  scratched  his  head, 
and  hitched  uneasily  in  his  chair,  evidently  making  a  vain 
effort  to  penetrate  the  gloom  back  of  that  vague  awaken 
ing  in  the  Southern  hospital.  At  last  he  broke  out  in  his 
usual  irritation,  "  Naw,  I  kyant,  doggon  —  " 

"  Hush  !  you  must  not  use  that  word  here.  Don't  be 
discouraged.  You  are  trying ;  that 's  all  I  ask,"  and  the 
doctor  laid  a  soothing  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Now,  Cap- 

ii 


1 62          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

tain,  I  '11  just  step  in  the  next  room.  You  think  quietly 
as  you  can  about  the  young  lady  to  whom  you  gave  that 
picture  of  yourself." 

Nichol  was  immensely  pleased  with  his  photograph,  and 
looked  at  it  in  all  its  lights.  While  thus  gratifying  a  sort  of 
childish  vanity,  Helen  entered  noiselessly,  her  blue  eyes, 
doubly  luminous  from  the  pallor  of  her  face,  shining  like 
sapphires.  So  intent  was  her  gaze  that  one  might  think  it 
would  "  kindle  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death." 

At  last  Nichol  became  conscious  of  her  presence  and 
started,  exclaiming,  "Why,  there  she  is  herself." 

"  Oh,  Albert,  you  do  know  me,"  cried  the  girl,  rushing 
toward  him  with  outstretched  hand. 

He  took  it  unhesitatingly,  saying  with  a  pleased  wonder, 
"  Well,  I  reckon  I  'm  comin'  around.  Yer  the  young  lady 
I  give  this  picture  to?" 

"  I  'm  Helen,"  she  breathed,  with  an  indescribable  accent 
of  tenderness  and  gladness. 

"  Why,  cert'ny.     The  doctor  tole  me  'bout  you." 

"  But  you  remember  me  yourself?  "  she  pleaded.  "You 
remember  what  you  said  to  me  when  you  gave  me  this 
picture?"  and  she  looked  into  his  eyes  with  an  expression 
which  kindled  even  his  dull  senses. 

"  Oh,  shucks  !  "  he  said  slowly,  "  I  wish  I  could.  I  'd  like 
ter  'blige  yer,  fer  yer  right  purty,  en  I  am  a-tryin'  ter  mind 
the  doctor." 

Such  a  sigh  escaped  her  that  one  might  think  her  heart 
and  hope  were  going  with  it.  The  supreme  moment  of 
meeting  had  come  and  gone,  and  he  did  not  know  her ; 
she  saw  and  felt  in  her  inmost  soul  that  he  did  not.  The 
brief  and  illusive  gleam  into  the  past  was  projected  only 
from  the  present,  resulting  from  what  he  had  been  told,  not 
from  what  he  recalled. 


FOUND   YET  LOST.  163 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  turned  away,  and  for  a  moment 
or  two  her  form  shook  with  sobs  she  could  not  wholly  stifle. 
He  looked  on  perplexed  and  troubled,  then  broke  out,  "  I 
jes'  feels  ez  ef  I  'd  split  my  blamed  ole  haid  open  —  " 

She  checked  him  by  a  gesture.  "Wait,"  she  cried,  "sit 
down."  She  took  a  chair  near  him  and  hastily  wiped  her 
eyes.  "  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  remember  me.  You  will 
listen  closely,  will  you  not?" 

"  I  be  dog  —  oh,  I  forgot,"  and  he  looked  toward  the 
back  parlor  apprehensively.  "  Yes,  mees,  I  '11  do  anythin' 
yer  sez." 

"  Well,  once  you  were  a  little  boy  only  so  high,  and  I 
was  a  little  girl  only  so  high.  We  both  lived  in  this  village 
and  we  went  to  school  together.  We  studied  out  of  the 
same  books  together.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
school  was  out,  and  then  we  put  our  books  in  our  desks 
and  the  teacher  let  us  go  and  play.  There  was  a  pond  of 
water,  and  it  often  froze  over  with  smooth  black  ice.  You 
and  I  used  to  go  together  to  that  pond ;  and  you  would 
fasten  my  skates  on  my  feet  — ' 

"  Hanged  ef  I  would  n't  do  it  agin,"  he  cried,  greatly 
pleased.  "  Yer  beats  'em  all.  Stid  o'  astin  questions,  yer 
tells  me  all  'bout  what  happened.  Why,  I  kin  reckerlect 
it  all  ef  I  'm  tole  often  anuff." 

With  a  sinking  heart  she  faltered  on,  "  Then  you  grew 
older  and  went  away  to  school,  and  I  went  away  to  school. 
We  had  vacations ;  we  rode  on  horseback  together.  Well, 
you  grew  to  be  as  tall  as  you  are  now ;  and  then  came  a 
war  and  you  wore  a  captain's  uniform,  like  —  like  that  you 
see  in  your  likeness,  and  —  and — "  she  stopped.  Her 
rising  color  became  a  vivid  flush  ;  she  slowly  rose  as  the 
thought  burned  its  way  into  her  consciousness  that  she 
was  virtually  speaking  to  a  stranger.  Her  words  were  bring- 


1 64         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

ing  no  gleams  of  intelligence  into  his  face ;  they  were 
throwing  no  better,  no  stronger  light  upon  the  past  than  if 
she  were  telling  the  story  to  a  great  boy.  Yet  he  was  not 
a  boy.  A  man's  face  was  merely  disfigured  (to  her  eyes) 
by  a  grin  of  pleasure  instead  of  a  pleased  smile ;  and  a 
man's  eyes  were  regarding  her  with  an  unwinking  stare  of 
admiration.  She  was  not  facing  her  old  playmate,  her  old 
friend  and  lover,  but  a  being  whose  only  consciousness 
reached  back  but  months,  through  scenes,  associations 
coarse  and  vulgar  like  himself.  She  felt  this  with  an  intui 
tion  that  was  overwhelming.  She  could  not  utter  another 
syllable,  much  less  speak  of  the  sacred  love  of  the  past. 
"  O  God  !  "  she  moaned  in  her  heart,  "  the  man  has  become 
a  living  grave  in  which  his  old  self  is  buried.  Oh,  this  is 
terrible,  terrible  !  " 

As  the  truth  grew  upon  her  she  sprang  away,  wringing 
her  hands  and  looking  upon  him  with  an  indescribable  ex 
pression  of  pity  and  dread.  "  Oh,"  she  now  moaned  aloud, 
"  if  he  had  only  come  back  to  me  mutilated  in  body,  help 
less  !  but  this  change  —  " 

She  fled  from  the  room,  and  Nichol  stared  after  her  in 
perplexed  consternation. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  FORWARD  !     COMPANY   A." 

~\\  7  HEN  Mrs.  Kemble  was  left  alone  with  Captain 
Nichol's  parents  in  the  sitting-room,  she  told  them 
of  Helen's  plan  of  employing  the  photograph  in  trying  to 
recall  their  son  to  himself.  It  struck  them  as  an  unusually 
effective  method.  Mrs.  Kemble  saw  that  their  anxiety  was 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  165 

so  intense  that  it  was  torture  for  them  to  remain  in  suspense 
away  from  the  scene  of  action.  It  may  be  added  that  her 
own  feelings  also  led  her  to  go  with  them  into  the  back  par 
lor,  where  all  that  was  said  by  Nichol  and  her  daughter 
could  be  heard.  Her  solicitude  for  Helen  was  not  less  than 
theirs  for  their  son ;  and  she  felt  the  girl  might  need  both 
motherly  care  and  counsel..  She  was  opposed  even  more 
strenuously  than  her  husband  to  any  committal  on  the 
daughter's  part  to  her  old  lover  unless  he  should  become 
beyond  all  doubt  his  former  self.  At  best,  it  would  be  a 
heavy  cross  to  give  up  Martine,  who  had  won  her  entire 
affection.  Helen's  heart  presented  a  problem  too  deep  for 
solution.  What  would — what  could  —  Captain  Nichol  be 
to  her  child  in  his  present  condition,  should  it  continue  ? 

It  was  but  natural  therefore  that  she  and  her  husband 
should  listen  to  Helen's  effort  to  awaken  memories  of  the 
past  with  profound  anxiety.  How  far  would  she  go?  If 
Nichol  were  able  to  respond  with  no  more  appreciative  in 
telligence  than  he  had  thus  far  manifested,  would  a  sen 
timent  of  pity  and  obligation  carry  her  to  the  point  of 
accepting  him  as  he  was,  of  devoting  herself  to  one  who,  in 
spite  of  all  their  commiseration  and  endeavors  to  tolerate, 
might  become  a  sort  of  horror  in  their  household  !  It  was 
with  immense  relief  that  they  heard  her  falter  in  her  story, 
for  they  quickly  divined  that  there  was  nothing  in  him  which 
responded  to  her  effort.  When  they  heard  her  rise  and 
moan,  "  If  he  had  only  come  back  to  me  mutilated  in  body, 
helpless  !  but  this  change  —  "  they  believed  that  she  was 
meeting  the  disappointment  as  they  could  wish. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol  heard  the  words  also,  and  while  in 
a  measure  compelled  to  recognize  their  force,  they  con 
veyed  a  meaning  hard  to  accept.  The  appeal  upon  which 
so  much  hope  had  been  built  had  failed.  In  bitterness  of 


1 66         TAKEN  A  LI  YE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

soul,  the  conviction  grew  stronger  that  their  once  brave, 
keen-minded  son  would  never  be  much  better  than  an 
idiot. 

Then  Helen  appeared  among  them  as  pale,  trembling, 
and  overwhelmed  as  if  she  had  seen  a  spectre.  In  strong 
reaction  from  her  effort  and  blighted  hope  she  was  almost 
in  a  fainting  condition.  Her  mother's  arms  received  her 
and  supported  her  to  a  lounge ;  Mrs.  Nichol  gave  way  to 
bitter  weeping ;  Mr.  Kemble  wrung  the  father's  hand  in 
sympathy,  and  then  at  his  wife's  request  went  for  restora 
tives.  Dr.  Barnes  closed  the  sliding-doors  and  prudently 
reassured  Nichol :  "  You  have  done  your  best,  Captain,  and 
that  is  all  I  asked  of  you.  Remain  here  quietly  and  look  at 
your  picture  for  a  little  while,  and  then  you  shall  have  a 
good  long  rest." 

"  I  did  try,  Doctor,"  protested  Nichol,  anxiously.  "  Gee 
wiz  !  I  reckon  a  feller  orter  try  ter  please  sech  a  purty 
gyurl.  She  tole  me  lots.  Look  yere,  Doctor,  why  kyant  I 
be  tole  over  en  over  till  I  reckerlect  it  all?  " 

"  Well,  we  '11  see,  Captain.  It 's  late  now,  and  we  must 
all  have  a  rest.  Stay  here  till  I  come  for  you." 

Nichol  was  so  pleased  with  his  photograph  that  he  was 
well  content  in  its  contemplation.  The  physician  now  gave 
his  attention  to  Helen,  who  was  soon  so  far  restored  as  to 
comprehend  her  utter  failure.  Her  distress  was  great  in 
deed,  and  for  a  few  moments  diverted  the  thoughts  of  even 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol  from  their  own  sad  share  in  the  dis 
appointment. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  sobbed  Helen,  "  this  is  the  bitterest  sorrow 
the  war  has  brought  us  yet." 

"  Well,  now,  friends,"  said  Dr.  Barnes,  "  it 's  time  I  had 
my  say  and  gave  my  orders.  You  must  remember  that  I 
have  not  shared  very  fully  in  your  confidence  that  the  cap- 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  1 67 

tain  could  be  restored  by  the  appeals  you  have  made ; 
neither  do  I  share  in  this  abandonment  to  grief  now.  As 
the  captain  says,  he  is  yet  simply  unable  to  respond.  We 
must  patiently  wait  and  see  what  time  and  medical  skill  can 
do  for  him.  There  is  no  reason  whatever  for  giving  up 
hope.  Mrs.  Kemble,  I  would  advise  you  to  take  Miss 
Helen  to  her  room,  and  you,  Mr.  Nichol,  to  take  your  wife 
and  son  home.  I  will  call  in  the  morning,  and  then  we  can 
advise  further." 

His  counsel  was  followed,  the  captain  readily  obeying 
when  told  to  go  with  his  parents.  Then  the  physician 
stepped  over  to  Martine's  cottage  and  found,  as  he  sup 
posed,  that  the  opiate  and  exhausted  nature  had  brought 
merciful  oblivion. 

It  was  long  before  Helen  slept,  nor  would  she  take  any 
thing  to  induce  sleep.  She  soon  became  quiet,  kissed  her 
mother,  and  said  she  wished  to  be  alone.  Then  she  tried 
to  look  at  the  problem  in  all  its  aspects,  and  earnestly  asked 
for  divine  guidance.  The  decision  reached  in  the  gray 
dawn  brought  repose  of  mind  and  body. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Martine  awoke  with  a 
dull  pain  in  his  head  and  heart.  As  the  consciousness  of 
all  that  had  happened  returned,  he  remembered  that  there 
was  good  reason  for  both.  His  faithful  old  domestic  soon 
prepared  a  dainty  meal,  which  aided  in  giving  tone  to  his 
exhausted  system.  Then  he  sat  down  by  his  fire  to  brace 
himself  for  the  tidings  he  expected  to  hear.  Helen's  chair 
was  empty.  It  would  always  be  hers,  but  hope  was  gone 
that  she  would  smile  from  it  upon  him  during  the  long  win 
ter  evenings.  Already  the  room  was  darkening  toward  the 
early  December  twilight,  and  he  felt  that  his  life  was  darken 
ing  in  like  manner.  He  was  no  longer  eager  to  hear  what 
had  occurred.  The  mental  and  physical  sluggishness  which 


1 68          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

possessed  him  was  better  than  sharp  pain ;  he  would  learn 
all  soon  enough,  —  the  recognition,  the  beginning  of  a  new 
life  which  inevitably  would  drift  farther  and  farther  from 
him.  His  best  hope  was  to  get  through  the  time,  to  endure 
patiently  and  shape  his  life  so  as  to  permit  as  little  of  its 
shadow  as  possible  to  fall  upon  hers.  But  as  he  looked 
around  the  apartment  and  saw  on  every  side  the  prepara 
tions  for  one  who  had  been  his,  yet  could  be  no  longer,  his 
fortitude  gave  way,  and  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

So  deep  was  his  painful  revery  that  he  did  not  hear  the 
entrance  of  Dr.  Barnes  and  Mr.  Kemble.  The  latter  laid 
a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  said  kindly,  "  Hobart,  my 
friend,  it  is  just  as  I  told  you  it  would  be.  Helen  needs 
you  and  wishes  to  see  you." 

Martine  started  up,  exclaiming,  "  He  must  have  re 
membered  her." 

Mr.  Kemble  shook  his  head.  "  No,  Hobart,"  said  the 
doctor,  "  she  was  as  much  of  a  stranger  to  him  as  you  were. 
There  were,  of  course,  grounds  for  your  expectation  and 
hers  also,  but  we  prosaic  physiologists  have  some  reason  for 
our  doublings  as  well  as  you  for  your  beliefs.  It 's  going  to 
be  a  question  of  time  with  Nichol.  How  are  you  yourself? 
Ah,  I  see,"  he  added,  with  his  finger  on  his  patient's  pulse. 
"  With  you  it 's  going  to  be  a  question  of  tonics." 

"  Yes,  I  admit  that,"  Martine  replied,  "  but  perhaps  of 
tonics  other  than  those  you  have  in  mind.  You  said,  sir 
[to  Mr.  Kemble],  that  Helen  wished  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  when  you  feel  well  enough." 

"  I  trust  you  will  make  yourselves  at  home,"  said  Martine, 
hastily  preparing  to  go  out. 

"  But  don't  you  wish  to  hear  more  about  Nichol?  "  asked 
the  doctor,  laughing. 

"  Not  at  present.     Good-by." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  169 

Yet  he  was  perplexed  how  to  meet  the  girl  who  should 
now  have  been  his  wife ;  and  he  trembled  with  strange  em 
barrassment  as  he  entered  the  familiar  room  in  which  he 
had  parted  from  her  almost  on  the  eve  of  their  wedding. 
She  was  neither  perplexed  nor  embarrassed,  for  she  had  the 
calmness  of  a  fixed  purpose.  She  went  swiftly  to  him,  took 
his  hand,  led  him  to  a  chair,  then  sat  down  beside  him. 
He  looked  at  her  wonderingly  and  listened  sadly  as  she 
asked,  "  Hobart,  will  you  be  patient  with  me  again?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  after  a  moment,  yet  he  sighed  deeply 
in  foreboding. 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  yet  her  voice  did  not  falter  as 
she  continued,  "  I  said  last  night  that  you  would  understand 
me  better  than  any  one  else ;  so  I  believe  you  will  now. 
You  will  sustain  and  strengthen  me  in  what  I  believe  to  be 
duty." 

"  Yes,  Helen,  up  to  the  point  of  such  endurance  as  I 
have.  One  can't  go  beyond  that." 

"  No,  Hobart,  but  you  will  not  fail  me,  nor  let  me  fail. 
I  cannot  marry  Captain  Nichol  as  he  now  is,"  —  there  was 
an  irrepressible  flash  of  joy  in  his  dark  eyes,  —  "  nor  can  I," 
she  added  slowly  and  sadly,  "  marry  you."  He  was  about 
to  speak,  but  she  checked  him  and  resumed.  "  Listen 
patiently  to  me  first.  I  have  thought  and  thought  long 
hours,  and  I  think  I  am  right.  You,  better  than  I,  know 
Captain  Nichol's  condition,  —  its  sad  contrast  to  his  former 
noble  self.  The  man  we  once  knew  is  veiled,  hidden,  lost 
—  how  can  we  express  it  ?  But  he  exists,  and  at  any  time 
may  find  and  reveal  himself.  No  one,  not  even  I,  can 
revolt  at  what  he  is  now  as  he  will  revolt  at  it  all  when  his 
true  consciousness  returns.  He  has  met  with  an  immeasur 
able  misfortune.  He  is  infinitely  worse  off  than  if  help 
less, —  worse  off  than  if  he  were  dead,  if  this  condition  is  to 


1 70         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

last ;  but  it  may  not  last.  What  would  he  think  of  me 
if  I  should  desert  him  now  and  leave  him  nothing  to  re 
member  but  a  condition  of  which  he  could  only  think  with 
loathing?  I  will  hide  nothing  from  you,  Hobart,  my  brave, 
true  friend,  —  you  who  have  taught  me  what  patience  means. 
If  you  had  brought  him  back  utterly  helpless,  yet  his  old 
self  in  mind,  I  could  have  loved  him  and  married  him,  and 
you  would  have  sustained  me  in  that  course.  Now  I  don't 
know.  My  future,  in  this  respect,  is  hidden  like  his.  The 
shock  I  received  last  night,  the  revulsion  of  feeling  which 
followed,  leaves  only  one  thing  clear.  I  must  try  to  do 
what  is  right  by  him ;  it  will  not  be  easy.  I  hope  you 
will  understand.  While  I  have  the  deepest  pity  that  a 
woman  can  feel,  I  shrink  from  him  now,  for  the  contrast 
between  his  former  self  and  his  present  is  so  terrible.  Oh, 
it  is  such  a  horrible  mystery  !  All  Dr.  Barnes's  explanations 
do  not  make  it  one  bit  less  mysterious  and  dreadful. 
Albert  took  the  risk  of  this ;  he  has  suffered  this  for  his 
country.  I  must  suffer  for  him  ;  I  must  not  desert  him  in 
his  sad  extremity.  I  must  not  permit  him  to  awake  some 
day  and  learn  from  others  what  he  now  is,  and  that  I,  the 
woman  he  loved,  of  all  others,  left  him  to  his  degradation. 
The  consequences  might  be  more  fatal  than  the  injury 
which  so  changed  him.  Such  action  on  my  part  might 
destroy  him  morally.  Now  his  old  self  is  buried  as  truly  as 
if  he  had  died.  I  could  never  look  him  in  the  face  again 
if  I  left  him  to  take  his  chances  in  life  with  no  help  from 
me,  still  less  if  I  did  that  which  he  could  scarcely  forgive. 
He  could  not  understand  all  that  has  happened  since 
we  thought  him  dead.  He  would  only  remember  that  I 
deserted  him  in  his  present  pitiable  plight.  Do  you 
understand  me,  Hobart?" 
"I  must,  Helen." 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  171 

"  I  know  how  hard  it  is  for  you.  Can  you  think  I  for 
get  this  for  a  moment?  Yet  I  send  for  you  to  help,  to 
sustain  me  in  a  purpose  which  changes  our  future  so  greatly. 
Do  you  not  remember  what  you  said  once  about  accepting 
the  conditions  of  life  as  they  are  ?  We  must  do  this  again, 
and  make  the  best  of  them." 

"  But  if —  suppose  his  memory  does  not  come  back.  Is 
there  to  be  no  hope?" 

"  Hobart,  you  must  put  that  thought  from  you  as  far  as 
you  can.  Do  you  not  see  whither  it  might  lead?  You 
would  not  wish  Captain  Nichol  to  remain  as  he  is?" 

"  Oh,"  he  cried  desperately,  "  I  'm  put  in  a  position  that 
would  tax  any  saint  in  the  calendar." 

"  Yes,  you  are.  The  future  is  not  in  our  hands.  I  can 
only  appeal  to  you  to  help  me  do  what  I  think  is  right 
now.'1 

He  thought  a  few  moments,  took  his  resolve,  then  gave  her 
his  hand  silently.  She  understood  him  without  a  word. 

The  news  of  the  officer's,  return  and  of  his  strange  con 
dition  was  soon  generally  known  in  the  village ;  but  his 
parents,  aided  by  the  physician,  quickly  repressed  those  in 
clined  to  call  from  mere  curiosity.  At  first  Jim  Wetherby 
scouted  the  idea  that  his  old  captain  would  not  know  him, 
but  later  had  to  admit  the  fact  with  a  wonder  which  no 
explanations  satisfied.  Nichoi  immediately  took  a  fancy  to 
the  one-armed  veteran,  who  was  glad  to  talk  by  the  hour 
about  soldiers  and  hospitals. 

Before  any  matured  plan  for  treatment  could  be  adopted 
Nichol  became  ill,  and  soon  passed  into  the  delirium  of 
fever,  "  The  trouble  is  now  clear  enough,"  Dr.  Barnes  ex 
plained.  "  The  captain  has  lived  in  hospitals  and  breathed 
a  tainted  atmosphere  so  long  that  his  system  is  poisoned. 
This  radical  change  of  air  has  developed  the  disease." 


172         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

Indeed,  the  typhoid  symptoms  progressed  so  rapidly  as 
to  show  that  the  robust  look  of  health  had  been  in  appear 
ance  only.  The  injured,  weakened  brain  was  the  organ 
which  suffered  most,  and  in  spite  of  trrc  physician's  best 
efforts  his  patient  speedily  entered  into  a  condition  of 
stupor,  relieved  only  by  low,  unintelligible  mutterings. 
Jim  Wetherby  became  a  tireless  watcher,  and  greatly  re 
lieved  the  grief-stricken  parents.  Helen  earnestly  entreated 
that  she  might  act  the  part  of  nurse  also,  but  the  doctor 
firmly  forbade  her  useless  exposure  to  contagion.  She 
drove  daily  to  the  house,  yet  Mrs.  Nichol's  sad  face  and 
words  could  scarcely  dissipate  the  girl's  impression  that  the 
whole  strange  episode  was  a  dream. 

At  last  it  was  feared  that  the  end  was  near.  One  night 
Dr.  Barnes.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol,  and  Jim  Wetherby  were 
watching  in  the  hope  of  a  gleam  of  intelligence.  He  was 
very  low,  scarcely  more  than  breathing,  and  they  dreaded 
lest  there  might  be  no  sign  before  the  glimmer  of  life  faded 
out  utterly. 

Suddenly  the  captain  seemed  to  awake,  his  glassy  eyes 
kindled,  and  a  noble,  yet  stern  expression  dignified  his  vis 
age.  In  a  thick  voice  he  said,  "  For —  "  Then,  as  if  all 
the  remaining  forces  of  life  asserted  themselves,  he  rose  in 
his  bed  and  exclaimed  loudly,  "  Forward  !  Company  A. 
Guide  right.  Ah  !  "  He  fell  back,  now  dead  in  very  truth. 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Jim  Wetherby,  excitedly,  "  them  was  the 
last  words  I  heard  from  him  just  before  the  shell  burst,  and 
he  looks  now  just  as  he  did  then." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dr.  Barnes,  sadly  and  gravely,  "  memory 
came  back  to  him  at  the  point  where  he  lost  it.  He  has 
died  as  we  thought  at  first,  —  a  brave  soldier  leading  a 
charge." 

The  stern,  grand  impress  of  battle  remained  upon  the 


FOUND    YET  LOST.  173 

officer's  countenance.  Friends  and  neighbors  looked  upon 
his  ennobled  visage  with  awe,  and  preserved  in  honored 
remembrance  the  real  man  that  temporarily  had  been  ob 
scured.  Helen's  eyes,  when  taking  her  farewell  look,  were 
not  so  blinded  with  tears  but  that  she  recognized  his 
restored  manhood.  Death's  touch  had  been  more  potent 
than  love's  appeal. 

In  the  Wilderness,  upon  a  day  fatal  to  him  and  so  many 
thousands,  Captain  Nichol  had  prophesied  of  the  happy 
days  of  peace.  They  came,  and  he  was  not  forgotten. 

One  evening  Dr.  Barnes  was  sitting  with  Martine  and 
Helen  at  their  fireside.  They  had  been  talking  about 
Nichol,  and  Helen  remarked  thoughtfully,  "  It  was  so  very 
strange  that  he  should  have  regained  his  memory  in  the 
way  and  at  the  time  he  did." 

"  No,"  replied  the  physician,  "  that  part  of  his  experience 
does  not  strike  me  as  so  very  strange.  In  typhoid  cases  a 
lucid  interval  is  apt  to  precede  death.  His  brain,  like  his 
body,  was  depleted,  shrunken  slightly  by  disease.  This 
impoverishment  probably  removed  the  cerebral  obstruction, 
and  the  organ  of  memory  renewed  its  action  at  the  point 
where  it  had  been  arrested.  My  theory  explains  his  last 
ejaculation,  'Ah!'  It  was  his  involuntary  exclamation  as 
he  again  heard  the  shell  burst.  The  reproduction  in  his 
mind  of  this  explosion  killed  him  instantly  after  all.  He 
was  too  enfeebled  to  bear  the  shock.  If  he  had  passed 
from  delirium  into  quiet  sleep  —  ah,  well !  he  is  dead,  and 
that  is  all  we  can  know  with  certainty." 

"  Well,"  said  Martine,  with  a  deep  breath,  "  I  am  glad  he 
had  every  chance  that  it  was  possible  for  us  to  give  him." 

"  Yes,  Hobart,"  added  his  wife,  gently,  "  you  did  your 
whole  duty,  and  I  do  not  forget  what  it  cost  you." 


QUEEN    OF   SPADES. 


"  A/T  OTHER,"  remarked  Farmer  Banning,  discontent- 
edly,  "  Susie  is  making  a  long  visit." 

"  She  is  coming  home  next  week,"  said  his  cheery  wife. 
She  had  drawn  her  low  chair  close  to  the  air-tight  stove,  for 
a  late  March  snow-storm  was  raging  without. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  miss  her  more  and  more." 

"Well,  I  'm  not  jealous." 

"  Oh,  come,  wife,  you  need  n't  be.  The  idea  !  But  I  'd 
be  jealous  if  our  little  girl  was  sorter  weaned  away  from  us 
by  this  visit  in  town." 

"  Now,  see  here,  father,  you  beat  all  the  men  I  ever  heard 
of  in  scolding  about  farmers  borrowing,  and  here  you  are 
borrowing  trouble." 

"  Well,  I  hope  I  won't  have  to  pay  soon.  But  I  Ve  been 
thinking  that  the  old  farm-house  may  look  small  and  appear 
lonely  after  her  gay  winter.  When  she  is  away,  it 's  too  big 
for  me,  and  a  suspicion  lonely  for  us  both.  I  Ve  seen  that 
you  Ve  missed  her  more  than  I  have." 

"  I  guess  you  're  right.  Well,  she  's  coming  home,  as  I 
said,  and  we  must  make  home  seem  home  to  her.  The 
child's  growing  up.  Why,  she  '11  be  eighteen  week  after 
next.  You  must  give  her  something  nice  on  her  birthday." 

"  I  will,"  said  the  farmer,  his  rugged,  weather-beaten  face 
softening  with  memories.  "  Is  our  little  girl  as  old  as  that  ? 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  175 

Why,  only  the  other  day  I  was  carrying  her  on  my  shoulder 
to  the  barn  and  tossing  her  into  the  haymow.  Sure  enough, 
the  xoth  of  April  will  be  her  birthday.  Well,  she  shall 
choose  her  own  present." 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  5th  of  April  he  went  down  the 
long  hill  to  the  station,  and  was  almost  like  a  lover  in  his 
eagerness  to  see  his  child.  He  had  come  long  before  the 
train's  schedule  time,  but  was  rewarded  at  last.  When  Susie 
appeared,  she  gave  him  a  kiss  before  every  one,  and  a  glad 
greeting  which  might  have  satisfied  the  most  exacting  of 
lovers.  He  watched  her  furtively  as  they  rode  at  a  smart 
trot  up  the  hill.  Farmer  Banning  kept  no  old  nags  for 
his  driving,  but  strong,  well-fed,  spirited  horses  that  some 
times  drew  a  light  vehicle  almost  by  the  reins.  "  Yes," 
he  thought,  "  she  has  grown  a  little  citified.  She  's  paler, 
and  has  a  certain  air  or  style  that  don't  seem  just  natural  to 
the  hill.  Well,  thank  the  Lord  !  she  does  n't  seem  sorry  to 
go  up  the  hill  once  more." 

"  There  's  the  old  place,  Susie,  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 
"  It  does  n't  look  so  very  bleak,  does  it,  after  all  the  fine 
city  houses  you  've  seen?  " 

"Yes,  father,  it  does.  It  never  appeared  so  bleak 
before." 

He  looked  at  his  home,  and  in  the  late  gray  afternoon, 
saw  it  in  a  measure  with  her  eyes,  —  the  long  brown,  bare 
slopes,  a  few  gaunt  old  trees  about  the  house,  and  the  top- 
boughs  of  the  apple- orchard  behind  a  sheltering  hill  in  the 
rear  of  the  dwelling. 

"  Father,"  resumed  the  girl,  "  we  ought  to  call  our  place 
the  Bleak  House.  I  never  so  realized  before  how  bare  and 
desolate  it  looks,  standing  there  right  in  the  teeth  of  the 
north  wind." 

His  countenance  fell,  but  he  had  no  time  for  comment. 


176          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

A  moment  later  Susie  was  in  her  mother's  arms.  The 
farmer  lifted  the  trunk  to  the  horse-block  and  drove  to  the 
barn.  "  I  guess  it  will  be  the  old  story,"  he  muttered. 
"  Home  has  become  '  Bleak  House.'  I  suppose  it  did  look 
bleak  to  her  eyes,  especially  at  this  season.  Well,  well, 
some  day  Susie  will  go  to  the  city  to  stay,  and  then  it  will 
be  Bleak  House,  sure  enough." 

"  Oh,  father,"  cried  his  daughter,  when  after  doing  his 
evening  work,  he  entered  with  the  shadow  of  his  thoughts 
still  upon  his  face,  —  "  oh,  father,  mother  says  I  can  choose 
my  birthday-present !  " 

"Yes,  Sue  ;  I  've  passed  my  word." 

"  And  so  I  have  your  bond.  My  present  will  make  you 
open  your  eyes." 

"  And  pocket-book  too,  I  suppose.  I  '11  trust  you,  how 
ever,  not  to  break  me.  What  is  it  to  be?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  the  day  before,  and  not  till  then." 

After  supper  they  drew  around  the  stove.  Mrs.  Banning 
got  out  her  knitting,  as  usual,  and  prepared  for  city  gossip. 
The  farmer  rubbed  his  hands  over  the  general  aspect  of 
comfort,  and  especially  over  the  regained  presence  of  his 
child's  bright  face.  "  Well,  Sue,"  he  remarked,  "  you  '11  own 
that  this  room  in  the  house  doesn't  look  very  bleak?  " 

"  No,  father,  I  '11  own  nothing  of  the  kind.  Your  face 
and  mother's  are  not  bleak,  but  the  room  is." 

"  Well,"  said  the  farmer,  rather  disconsolately,  "  I  fear 
the  old  place  has  been  spoiled  for  you.  I  was  saying  to 
mother  before  you  came  home  —  " 

"  There,  now,  father,  no  matter  about  what  you  were  say 
ing.  Let  Susie  tell  us  why  the  room  is  bleak." 

The  girl  laughed  softly,  got  up,  and  taking  a  billet  of 
wood  from  the  box,  put  it  into  the  air-tight.  "  The  stove 
has  swallowed  it  just  as  old  Trip  did  his  supper.  Shame  ! 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  177 

you  greedy  dog,"  she  added,  caressing  a  great  Newfound 
land  that  would  not  leave  her  a  moment.  "  Why  can't  you 
learn  to  eat  your  meals  like  a  gentleman  ?"  Then  to  her 
father,  "  Suppose  we  could  sit  here  and  see  the  flames  curl 
ing  all  over  and  around  that  stick.  Even  a  camp  in  the 
woods  is  jolly  when  lighted  up  by  a  flickering  blaze." 

"Oh  —  h  !  "  said  the  farmer;  "you  think  an  open  fire 
would  take  away  the  bleakness?" 

"  Certainly.  The  room  would  be  changed  instantly,  and 
mother's  face  would  look  young  and  rosy  again.  The 
blue-black  of  this  sheet-iron  stove  makes  the  room  look 
blue-black." 

"  Open  fires  don't  give  near  as  much  heat,"  said  her 
father,  meditatively.  "  They  take  an  awful  lot  of  wood ; 
and  wood  is  getting  scarce  in  these  parts." 

"  I  should  say  so  !  Why  don't  you  farmers  get  together, 
appoint  a  committee  to  cut  down  every  tree  remaining, 
then  make  it  a  states-prison  offence  ever  to  set  out  an 
other?  Why,  father,  you  cut  nearly  all  the  trees  from  your 
lot  a  few  years  ago  and  sold  the  wood.  Now  that  the  trees 
are  growing  again,  you  are  talking  of  clearing  up  the  land 
for  pasture.  Just  think  of  the  comfort  we  could  get  out  of 
that  wood-lot !  What  crop  would  pay  better?  All  the  up 
holsterers  in  the  world  cannot  furnish  a  room  as  an  open 
hard-wood  fire  does ;  and  all  the  produce  of  the  farm  could 
not  buy  anything  else  half  so  mice." 

"  Say,  mother,"  said  her  father,  after  a  moment,  "  I 
guess  I  '11  get  down  that  old  Franklin  from  the  garret  to 
morrow  and  see  if  it  can't  furnish  this  room." 

The  next  morning  he  called  rather  testily  to  the  hired 
man,  who  was  starting  up  the  lane  with  an  axe,  "  Hiram, 
I  've  got  other  work  for  you.  Don't  cut  a  stick  in  that 
wood-lot  unless  I  tell  you." 

12 


1/8  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

The  evening  of  the  pth  of  April  was  cool  but  clear,  and 
the  farmer  said  genially,  "Well,  Sue,  prospects  good  for 
fine  weather  on  your  birthday.  Glad  of  it ;  for  I  suppose 
you  will  want  me  to  go  to  town  with  you  for  your  present, 
whatever  it  is  to  be." 

"  You  '11  own  up  a  girl  can  keep  a  secret  now,  won't 
you?" 

"  He  '11  have  to  own  more  'n  that,"  added  his  wife  ;  "  he 
must  own  that  an  old  woman  has  n't  lost  any  sleep  from 
curiosity." 

"  How  much  will  be  left  me  to  own  to-morrow  night?  " 
said  the  farmer,  dubiously.  "  I  suppose  Sue  wants  a  watch 
studded  with  diamonds,  or  a  new  house,  or  something  else 
that  she  darsn't  speak  of  till  the  last  minute,  even  to  her 
mother." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind.  I  want  only  all  your  time  to 
morrow,  and  all  Hiram's  time,  after  you  have  fed  the 
stock." 

"  All  our  time  !  " 

"  Yes,  the  entire  day,  in  which  you  both  are  to  do  just 
what  I  wish.  You  are  not  going  gallivanting  to  the  city, 
but  will  have  to  work  hard." 

"  Well,  I  'm  beat !  I  don't  know  what  you  want  any 
more  than  I  did  at  first." 

"Yes,  you  do,  —  your  time  and  Hiram's." 

"  Give  it  up.  It 's  hardly  the  season  for  a  picnic.  We 
might  go  fishing  —  " 

"  We  must  go  to  bed,  so  as  to  be  up  early,  all  hands." 

"  Oh,  hold  on,  Sue ;  I  do  like  this  wood-fire.  If  it 
wouldn't  make  you  vain,  I'd  tell  you  how  — " 

"  Pretty,  father.     Say  it  out." 

"  Oh,  you  know  it,  do  you  ?  Well,  how  pretty  you  look 
in  the  firelight.  Even  mother,  there,  looks  ten  years 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  179 

younger.  Keep  your  low  seat,  child,  and  let  me  look  at 
you.  So  you're  eighteen?  My!  my!  how  the  years  roll 
around  !  It  will  be  Bleak  House  for  mother  and  me,  in 
spite  of  the  wood-fire,  when  you  leave  us." 

"  It  won't  be  Bleak  House  much  longer,"  she  replied 
with  a  significant  little  nod. 

The  next  morning  at  an  early  hour  the  farmer  said,  "  All 
ready,  Sue.  Our  time  is  yours  till  night ;  so  queen  it  over 
us."  And  black  Hiram  grinned  acquiescence,  thinking  he 
was  to  have  an  easy  time. 

"Queen  it,  did  you  say?"  cried  Sue,  in  great  spirits. 
"  Well,  then,  I  shall  be  queen  of  spades.  Get  'em,  and 
come  with  me.  Bring  a  pickaxe,  too."  She  led  the  way 
to  a  point  not  far  from  the  dwelling,  and  resumed  :  "  A 
hole  here,  father,  a  hole  there,  Hiram,  big  enough  for  a 
small  hemlock,  and  holes  all  along  the  northeast  side  of  the 
house.  Then  lots  more  holes,  all  over  the  lawn,  for  oaks, 
maples,  dogwood,  and  all  sorts  of  pretty  trees,  especially 
evergreens." 

"  Oh,  ho  !  "  cried  the  farmer ;  "  now  I  see  the  hole  where 
the  woodchuck  went  in." 

"  But  you  don't  see  the  hole  where  he 's  coming  out. 
When  that  is  dug,  even  the  road  will  be  lined  with  trees. 
Foolish  old  father  !  you  thought  I  'd  be  carried  away  with 
city  gewgaws,  fine  furniture,  dresses,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  You  thought  I  'd  be  pining  for  what  you  could  n't 
afford,  what  would  n't  do  you  a  particle  of  good,  nor  me 
either,  in  the  long  run.  I  'm  going  to  make  you  set  out 
trees  enough  to  double  the  value  of  your  place  and  take  all 
the  bleakness  and  bareness  from  this  hillside.  To-day  is 
only  the  beginning.  I  did  get  some  new  notions  in  the 
city  which  made  me  discontented  with  my  home,  but  they 
were  not  the  notions  you  were  worrying  about.  In  the 


ISO  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

suburbs  I  saw  that  the  most  costly  houses  were  made 
doubly  attractive  by  trees  and  shrubbery,  and  I  knew  that 
trees  would  grow  for  us  as  well  as  for  millionnaires —  My 
conscience  !  if  there  isn't — "  and  the  girl  frowned  and  bit 
her  lips. 

"  Is  that  one  of  the  city  beaux  you  were  telling  us 
about?"  asked  her  father,  sotto  voce. 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  want  any  beaux  around  to-day.  I 
did  n't  think  he  'd  be  so  persistent."  Then,  conscious  that 
she  was  not  dressed  for  company,  but  for  work  upon  which 
she  had  set  her  heart,  she  advanced  and  gave  Mr.  Minturn 
a  rather  cool  greeting. 

But  the  persistent  beau  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  He 
had  endured  Sue's  absence  as  long  as  he  could,  then  had 
resolved  on  a  long  day's  siege,  with  a  grand  storming-onset 
late  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Please,  Miss  Banning,"  he  began,  "  don't  look  askance 
at  me  for  coming  at  this  unearthly  hour.  I  claim  the  sacred 
rites  of  hospitality.  I  'm  an  invalid.  The  doctor  said  I 
needed  country  air,  or  would  have  prescribed  it  if  given 
a  chance.  You  said  I  might  come  to  see  you  some  day, 
and  by  playing  Paul  Pry  I  found  out,  you  remember,  that 
this  was  your  birthday,  and  —  " 

"And  this  is  my  father,  Mr.  Minturn." 

Mr.  Minturn  shook  the  farmer's  hand  with  a  cordiality 
calculated  to  awaken  suspicions  of  his  designs  in  a  pump, 
had  its  handle  been  thus  grasped.  "  Mr.  Banning  will  for 
give  me  for  appearing  with  the  lark,"  he  continued  volubly, 
determining  to  break  the  ice.  "  One  can't  get  the  full  ben 
efit  of  a  day  in  the  country  if  he  starts  in  the  afternoon." 

The  farmer  was  polite,  but  nothing  more.  If  there  was 
one  thing  beyond  all  others  with  which  he  could  dispense, 
it  was  a  beau  for  Sue. 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  l8l 

Sue  gave  her  father  a  significant,  disappointed  glance, 
which  meant,  "  I  won't  get  my  present  to-day ;  "  but  he 
turned  and  said  to  Hiram,  "  Dig  the  hole  right  there,  two 
feet  across,  eighteen  inches  deep."  Then  he  started  for 
the  house.  While  not  ready  for  suitors,  his  impulse  to 
bestow  hospitality  was  prompt. 

The  alert  Mr.  Minturn  had  observed  the  girl's  glance, 
and  knew  that  the  farmer  had  gone  to  prepare  his  wife  for 
a  guest.  He  determined  not  to  remain  unless  assured  of  a 
welcome.  "Come,  Miss  Banning,"  he  said,  "we  are  at 
least  friends,  and  should  be  frank.  How  much  misunder 
standing  and  trouble  would  often  be  saved  if  people  would 
just  speak  their  thought !  This  is  your  birthday,  — your 
day.  It  should  not  be  marred  by  any  one.  It  would  dis 
tress  me  keenly  if  I  were  the  one  to  spoil  it.  Why  not 
believe  me  literally  and  have  your  way  absolutely  about 
this  day?  I  could  come  another  time.  Now  show  that  a 
country  girl,  at  least,  can  speak  her  mind." 

With  an  embarrassed  little  laugh  she  answered,  "  I  'm 
half  inclined  to  take  you  at  your  word ;  but  it  would  look  so 
inhospitable." 

"  Bah  for  looks !  The  truth,  please.  By  the  way, 
though,  you  never  looked  better  than  in  that  trim  blue 
walking-suit." 

"  Old  outgrown  working-suit,  you  mean.  How  sincere 
you  are !  " 

"  Indeed  I  am.  Well,  I  'm  de  trop ;  that  much  is  plain. 
You  will  let  me  come  another  day,  won't  you?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  '11  be  frank  too  and  tell  you  about  this  day. 
Father  's  a  busy  man,  and  his  spring  work  is  beginning,  but 
as  my  birthday-present  he  has  given  me  all  his  time  and  all 
Hiram's  yonder.  Well,  I  learned  in  the  city  how  trees  im 
proved  a  home ;  and  I  had  planned  to  spend  this  long  day 


1 82         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

in  setting  out  trees,  —  planned  it  ever  since  my  return.  So 
you  see  —  " 

"  Of  course  I  see  and  approve,"  cried  Minturn.  "  I 
know  now  why  I  had  such  a  wild  impulse  to  come  out  here 
to-day.  Why,  certainly.  Just  fancy  me  a  city  tramp  look 
ing  for  work,  and  not  praying  I  won't  find  it,  either.  I  '11 
work  for  my  board.  I  know  how  to  set  out  trees.  I  can 
prove  it,  for  I  planted  those  thrifty  fellows  growing  about 
our  house  in  town.  Think  how  much  more  you  '11  ac 
complish  with  another  man  to  help,  —  one  that  you  can 
order  around  to  your  heart's  content." 

"  The  idea  of  my  putting  you  to  work  !  " 

"  A  capital  idea  !  and  if  a  man  does  n't  work  when  a 
woman  puts  him  at  it  he  is  n't  worth  the  powder  —  I  won't 
waste  time  even  in  original  remarks.  I  '11  promise  you  there 
will  be  double  the  number  of  trees  out  by  night.  Let  me 
take  your  father's  spade  and  show  you  how  I  can  dig.  Is 
this  the  place?  If  I  don't  catch  up  with  Hiram,  you  may 
send  the  tramp  back  to  the  city."  And  before  she  could 
remonstrate,  his  coat  was  off  and  he  at  work. 

Laughing,  yet  half  in  doubt,  she  watched  him.  The  way 
he  made  the  earth  fly  was  surprising.  "  Oh,  come,"  she 
said  after  a  few  moments,  "  you  have  shown  your  good 
will.  A  steam-engine  could  not  keep  it  up  at  that  rate." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  I  can.  Before  you  engage  me,  I 
wish  you  to  know  that  I  am  equal  to  old  Adam,  and  can 
dig." 

"  Engage  you  !  "  she  thought  with  a  little  flutter  of  dis 
may.  "  I  could  manage  him  with  the  help  of  town  con 
ventionalities  ;  but  how  will  it  be  here  ?  I  suppose  I  can 
keep  father  and  Hiram  within  earshot,  and  if  he  is  so 
bent  on  —  well,  call  it  a  lark,  since  he  has  referred  to 
that  previous  bird,  perhaps  I  might  as  well  have  a  lark 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  183 

too,  seeing  it 's  my  birthday."  Then  she  spoke.  "  Mr. 
Minturn  !  " 

"  I  'm  busy." 

"But  really  —  " 

"And  truly  tell  me,  am  I  catching  up  with  Hiram?  " 

"  You  '11  get  down  so  deep  that  you  '11  drop  through  if 
you  're  not  careful." 

"  There 's  nothing  like  having  a  man  who  is  steady  work 
ing  for  you.  Now,  most  fellows  would  stop  and  giggle  at 
such  little  amusing  remarks." 

"You  are  soiling  your  trousers." 

"  Yes,  you  're  right.  They  are  mine.  There  ;  is  n't  that 
a  regulation  hole?  'Two  feet  across  and  eighteen  deep.'  " 

"  Yah  !  yah  !  "  cackled  Hiram  ;  "  eighteen  foot  deep  ! 
Dat  ud  be  a  well." 

"  Of  course  it  would,  and  truth  would  lie  at  its  bottom. 
Can  I  stay,  Miss  Banning?" 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  like?  "  cried  the  farmer,  who  had 
appeared,  unnoticed. 

"  Look  here,  father,"  said  the  now  merry  girl,  "  perhaps  I 
was  mistaken.  This  —  " 

"  Tramp  —  "  interjected  Minturn. 

"  Says  he  's  looking  for  work  and  knows  how  to  set  out 
trees." 

"  And  will  work  all  day  for  a  dinner,"  the  tramp  promptly 
added. 

"  If  he  can  dig  holes  at  that  rate,  Sue,"  said  her  father, 
catching  their  spirit,  "  he  's  worth  a  dinner.  But  you  're 
boss  to-day;  I  'm  only  one  of  the  hands." 

"  I  'm  only  another,"  said  Minturn,  touching  his  hat. 

"  Boss,  am  I  ?  I  '11  soon  find  out.  Mr.  Mintum,  come 
with  me  and  don  a  pair  of  overalls.  You  sha'n't  put  me  to 
shame,  wearing  that  spick-and-span  suit,  neither  shall  you 


1 84         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

spoil  it.  Oh,  you  're  in  for  it  now  !  You  might  have  escaped, 
and  come  another  day,  when  I  could  have  received  you  in 
state  and  driven  you  out  behind  father's  frisky  bays.  When 
you  return  to  town  with  blistered  hands  and  aching  bones, 
you  will  at  least  know  better  another  time." 

"  I  don't  know  any  better  this  time,  and  just  yearn  for 
those  overalls." 

"  To  the  house,  then,  and  see  mother  before  you  become 
a  wreck." 

Farmer  Banning  looked  after  him  and  shook  his  head. 
Hiram  spoke  his  employer's  thought,  "  Dat  ar  gem'lin  act 
like  he  gwine  ter  set  hisself  out  on  dis  farm." 

Sue  had  often  said,  "  I  can  never  be  remarkable  for  any 
thing  ;  but  I  won't  be  commonplace."  So  she  did  not  leave 
her  guest  in  the  parlor  while  she  rushed  off  for  a  whispered 
conference  with  her  mother.  The  well-bred  simplicity  of 
her  manner,  which  often  stopped  just  short  of  brusqueness, 
was  never  more  apparent  than  now.  "  Mother  !  "  she  called 
from  the  parlor  door. 

The  old  lady  gave  a  few  final  directions  to  her  maid-of- 
all-work,  and  then  appeared. 

"  Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Minturn,  one  of  my  city  friends,  of 
whom  I  have  spoken  to  you.  He  is  bent  on  helping  me  set 
out  trees." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Banning,  so  bent  that  your  daughter  found 
that  she  would  have  to  employ  her  dog  to  get  me  off  the 
place." 

Now,  it  had  so  happened  that  in  discussing  with  her 
mother  the  young  men  whom  she  had  met,  Sue  had  said 
little  about  Mr.  Minturn  ;  but  that  little  was  significant  to  the 
experienced  matron.  Words  had  slipped  out  now  and  then 
which  suggested  that  the  girl  did  more  thinking  than  talking 
concerning  him ;  and  she  always  referred  to  him  in  some 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  185 

light  which  she  chose  to  regard  as  ridiculous,  but  which 
had  not  seemed  in  the  least  absurd  to  the  attentive  listener. 
When  her  husband,  therefore,  said  that  Mr.  Minturn  had 
appeared  on  the  scene,  she  felt  that  an  era  of  portentous 
events  had  begun.  The  trees  to  be  set  out  would  change 
the  old  place  greatly,  but  a  primeval  forest  shading  the  door 
would  be  as  nothing  compared  with  the  vicissitude  which  a 
favored  "beau"  might  produce.  But  mothers  are  more 
unselfish  than  fathers,  and  are  their  daughters'  natural  allies 
unless  the  suitor  is  objectionable.  Mrs.  Banning  was  in 
clined  to  be  hospitable  on  general  principles,  meantime  eager 
on  her  own  account  to  see  something  of  this  man,  about 
whom  she  had  presentiments.  So  she  said  affably,  "  My 
daughter  can  keep  her  eye  on  the  work  which  she  is 
so  interested  in,  and  yet  give  you  most  of  her  time.  — 
Susan,  I  will  entertain  Mr.  Minturn  while  you  change  your 
dress." 

Sue  glanced  at  her  guest  dubiously,  receiving  for  the 
moment  the  impression  that  the  course  indicated  by  her 
mother  was  the  correct  one.  The  resolute  admirer  knew 
well  what  a  fiasco  the  day  would  be  should  the  convention 
alities  prevail,  and  so  said  promptly,  "  Mrs.  Banning,  I 
appreciate  your  kind  intentions,  and  I  hope  some  day  you 
may  have  the  chance  to  carry  them  out.  To-day,  as  your 
husband  understands,  I  am  a  tramp  from  the  city  looking 
for  work.  I  have  found  it,  and  have  been  engaged.  —  Miss 
Banning,  I  shall  hold  you  inflexibly  to  our  agreement,  —  a 
pair  of  overalls  and  dinner." 

Sue  said  a  few  words  of  explanation.  Her  mother  laughed, 
but  urged,  "  Do  go  and  change  your  dress." 

"I  protest!"  cried  Mr.  Minturn.  "The  walking-suit 
and  overalls  go  together." 

"Walking- suit,    indeed!"      repeated    Sue,    disdainfully. 


1 86          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  But  I  shall  not  change  it.  I  will  not  soften  one  feature 
of  the  scrape  you  have  persisted  in  getting  yourself  into." 

"  Please  don't." 

"Mr.  Minturn,"  said  the  matron,  with  smiling  positive- 
ness,  "  Susie  is  boss  only  out  of  doors ;  I  am,  in  the  house. 
There  is  a  fresh-made  cup  of  coffee  and  some  eggs  on  toast 
in  the  dining-room.  Having  taken  such  an  early  start,  you 
ought  to  have  a  lunch  before  being  put  to  work." 

"  Yes,"  added  Sue,  "  and  the  out-door  boss  says  you  can't 
go  to  work  until  at  least  the  coffee  is  sipped." 

"She's  shrewd,  isn't  she,  Mrs.  Banning?  She  knows 
she  will  get  twice  as  much  work  out  of  me  on  the  strength 
of  that  coffee.  Please  get  the  overalls.  I  will  not  sip,  but 
swallow  the  coffee,  unless  it 's  scalding,  so  that  no  time  may 
be  lost.  Miss  Banning  must  see  all  she  had  set  her  heart 
upon  accomplished  to-day,  and  a  great  deal  more." 

The  matron  departed  on  her  quest,  and  as  she  pulled  out 
the  overalls,  nodded  her  head  significantly.  "  Things  will 
be  serious  sure  enough  if  he  accomplishes  all  he  has  set  his 
heart  on,"  she  muttered.  "  Well,  he  does  n't  seem  afraid  to 
give  us  a  chance  to  see  him.  He  certainly  will  look  ridicu 
lous  in  these  overalls,  but  not  much  more  so  than  Sue  in 
that  old  dress.  I  do  wish  she  would  change  it." 

The  girl  had  considered  this  point,  but  with  characteristic 
decision  had  thought,  "  No ;  he  shall  see  us  all  on  the 
plainest  side  of  our  life.  He  always  seemed  a  good  deal  of 
an  exquisite  in  town,  and  he  lives  in  a  handsome  house.  If 
to-day's  experience  at  the  old  farm  disgusts  him,  so  be  it. 
My  dress  is  clean  and  tidy,  if  it  is  outgrown  and  darned ; 
and  mother  is  always  neat,  no  matter  what  she  wears.  I  'm 
going  through  the  day  just  as  I  planned ;  and  if  he  's  too 
fine  for  us,  now  is  the  time  to  find  it  out.  He  may  have 
come  just  for  a  lark,  and  will  laugh  with  his  folks  to-night 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  l8/ 

over  the  guy  of  a  girl  I  appear ;  but  I  won't  yield  even  to 
the  putting  of  a  ribbon  in  my  hair." 

Mrs.  Banning  never  permitted  the  serving  of  cold  slops 
for  coffee,  and  Mr.  Minturn  had  to  sip  the  generous  and 
fragrant  beverage  slowly.  Meanwhile,  his  thoughts  were 
busy.  "  Bah  !  for  the  old  saying,  '  Take  the  goods  the  gods 
send,'  "  he  mused.  "  Go  after  your  goods  and  take  your 
pick.  I  knew  my  head  was  level  in  coming  out.  All  is 
just  as  genuine  as  I  supposed  it  would  be,  —  simple,  honest, 
homely.  The  girl  is  n't  homely,  though,  but  she  's  just  as 
genuine  as  all  the  rest,  in  that  old  dress  which  fits  her  like  a 
glove.  No  shams  and  disguises  on  this  field-day  of  my  life. 
And  her  mother  !  A  glance  at  her  comfortable  amplitude 
banished  my  one  fear.  There  's  not  a  sharp  angle  about 
her.  I  was  satisfied  about  Miss  Sue,  but  the  term  '  mother- 
in-law  '  suggests  vague  terrors  to  any  man  until  reassured.  — 
Ah,  Miss  Banning,"  he  said,  "this  coffee  would  warm  the 
heart  of  an  anchorite.  No  wonder  you  are  inspired  to  fine 
things  after  drinking  such  nectar." 

"  Yes,  mother  is  famous  for  her  coffee.  I  know  that 's 
fine,  and  you  can  praise  it ;  but  I  '11  not  permit  any  ironical 
remarks  concerning  myself." 

"  I  would  n't,  if  I  were  you,  especially  when  you  are  mis 
tress  of  the  situation.  Still,  I  can't  help  having  my  opinion 
of  you.  Why  in  the  world  did  n't  you  choose  as  your  pres 
ent  something  stylish  from  the  city?  " 

"  Something,  I  suppose  you  mean,  in  harmony  with  my 
very  stylish  surroundings  and  present  appearance." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  anything  of  the  kind,  and  fancy  you 
know  it.  Ah !  here  are  the  overalls.  Now  deeds,  not 
words.  I  '11  leave  my  coat,  watch,  cuffs,  and  all  impedi 
menta  with  you,  Mrs.  Banning.  Am  I  not  a  spectacle 
to  men  and  gods?"  he  added,  drawing  up  the  garment, 


1 88         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

which  ceased  to  be  nether  in  that  it  reached  almost  to  his 
shoulders. 

"  Indeed  you  are,"  cried  Sue,  holding  her  side  from 
laughing.  Mrs.  Banning  also  vainly  tried  to  repress  her 
hilarity  over  the  absurd  guy  into  which  the  nattily-dressed 
city  man  had  transformed  himself. 

"  Come,"  he  cried,  "  no  frivolity  !  You  shall  at  least  say 
I  kept  my  word  about  the  trees  to-day."  And  they  started 
at  once  for  the  scene  of  action,  Minturn  obtaining  on  the 
way  a  shovel  from  the  tool-room. 

"To  think  she's  eighteen  years  old  and  got  a  beau  !  " 
muttered  the  farmer,  as  he  and  Hiram  started  two  new 
holes.  They  were  dug  and  others  begun,  yet  the  young 
people  had  not  returned.  "  That 's  the  way  with  young 
men  nowadays,  — '  big  cry,  little  wool.'  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  have  Sue  around  with  me  all  day.  Might  as  well 
get  used  to  it,  I  suppose.  Eighteen  !  Her  mother  was  n't 
much  older  when  —  yes,  hang  it,  there  's  always  a  when  with 
these  likely  girls.  I  'd  just  like  to  start  in  again  on  that  day 
when  I  tossed  her  into  the  haymow." 

"  What  are  you  talking  to  yourself  about,  father?  " 
"  Oh  !  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  last  of  you  to-day." 
"  Perhaps  you  will  wish  you  had  before  night." 
"  Well,  now,  Sue  !  the  idea  of  letting  Mr.  Minturn  rig 
himself  out   like   that !      There 's   no    use   of  scaring  the 
crows    so    long    before    corn-planting."      And    the    farm 
er's  guffaw  was  quickly  joined  by  Hiram's  broad  "  Yah  ! 
yah  !  " 

Sue  frowned  a  little  as  she  said,  "  He  does  n't  look  any 
worse  than  I  do." 

"  Come,  Mr.  Banning,  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  could  not 
so  take  your  daughter's  eye  to-day  as  a  goodly  number  of 
trees  standing  where  she  wants  them.  I  suggest  that  you 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  189 

loosen  the  soil  with  the  pickaxe,  then  I  can  throw  it  out 
rapidly.  Try  it." 

The  farmer  did  so,  not  only  for  Minturn,  but  for  Hiram 
also.  The  lightest  part  of  the  work  thus  fell  to  him.  "  We  '11 
change  about,"  he  said,  "  when  you  get  tired." 

But  Minturn  did  not  get  weary  apparently,  and  under  this 
new  division  of  the  toil  the  number  of  holes  grew  apace. 

"  Sakes  alive,  Mr.  Minturn  !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Banning, 
"  one  would  think  you  had  been  brought  up  on  a  farm." 

"  Or  at  ditch-digging,"  added  the  young  man.  "  No ; 
my  profession  is  to  ge't  people  into  hot  water  and  then  make 
them  pay  roundly  to  get  out.  I  'm  a  lawyer.  Times  have 
changed  in  cities.  It 's  there  you  '11  find  young  men  with 
muscle,  if  anywhere.  Put  your  hand  here,  sir,  and  you  '11 
know  whether  Miss  Banning  made  a  bad  bargain  in  hiring 
me  for  the  day." 

"  Why  !  "  exclaimed  the  astonished  farmer,  "  you  have 
the  muscle  of  a  blacksmith." 

"Yes,  sir;  I  could  learn  that  trade  in  about  a  month." 

"You  don't  grow  muscle  like  that  in  a  law-office?" 

"  No,  indeed ;  nothing  but  bills  grow  there.  A  good 
fashion,  if  not  abused,  has  come  in  vogue,  and  young  men 
develop  their  bodies  as  well  as  brains.  I  belong  to  an  ath 
letic  club  in  town,  and  could  take  to  pugilism  should  every 
thing  else  fail." 

"Is  there  any  prospect  of  your  coming  to  that?"  Sue 
asked  mischievously. 

"  If  we  were  out  walking,  and  two  or  three  rough  fellows 
gave  you  impudence  —  "  He  nodded  significantly. 

"  What  could  you  do  against  two  or  three  ?  They  'd  close 
on  you." 

"  A  fellow  taught  to  use  his  hands  does  n't  let  men  close 
on  him." 


190         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"Yah,  yah  !  reckon  not,"  chuckled  Hiram.  One  of  the 
farm  household  had  evidently  been  won. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  remarked  smiling  Sue,  "  that  I  saw 
several  young  men  in  town  who  appeared  scarcely  equal  to 
carrying  their  canes." 

"Dudes?" 

"That 's  what  they  are  called,  I  believe." 

"  They  are  not  men.  They  are  neither  fish,  flesh,  nor 
fowl,  but  the  beginning  of  the  great  downward  curve  of 
evolution.  Men  came  up  from  monkeys,  it 's  said,  you 
know,  but  science  is  in  despair  over  the  final  down-comes 
of  dudes.  They  may  evolute  into  grasshoppers." 

The  farmer  was  shaken  with  mirth,  and  Sue  could  not 
help  seeing  that  he  was  having  a  good  time.  She,  however, 
felt  that  no  tranquilly- exciting  day  was  before  her,  as  she 
had  anticipated.  What  would  n't  that  muscular  fellow  at 
tempt  before  night  ?  He  possessed  a  sort  of  vim  and  cheer 
ful  audacity  which  made  her  tremble.  "  He  is  too  con 
fident,"  she  thought,  "and  needs  a  lesson.  All  this  digging 
is  like  that  of  soldiers  who  soon  mean  to  drop  their  shovels. 
I  don't  propose  to  be  carried  by  storm  just  when  he  gets 
ready.  He  can  have  his  lark,  and  that 's  all  to-day.  I 
want  a  good  deal  of  time  to  think  before  I  surrender  to 
him  or  any  one  else." 

During  the  remainder  of  the  forenoon  these  musings  pre 
vented  the  slightest  trace  of  sentimentality  from  appearing 
in  her  face  or  words.  She  had  to  admit  mentally  that  Min- 
turn  gave  her  no  occasion  for  defensive  tactics.  He  at 
tended  as  strictly  to  business  as  did  Hiram,  and  she  was 
allowed  to  come  and  go  at  will.  At  first  she  merely  ven 
tured  to  the  house,  to  "  help  mother,"  as  she  said.  Then, 
with  growing  confidence,  she  went  here  and  there  to  select 
sites  for  trees ;  but  Minturn  dug  on  no  longer  "  like  a  steam- 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  19 1 

engine,"  yet  in  an  easy,  steady,  effective  way  that  was  a 
continual  surprise  to  the  farmer. 

"  Well,  Sue,"  said  her  father  at  last,  "  you  and  mother 
ought  to  have  an  extra  dinner ;  for  Mr.  Minturn  certainly 
has  earned  one." 

"  I  promised  him  only  a  dinner,"  she  replied  ;  "  nothing 
was  said  about  its  being  extra." 

"  Quantity  is  all  I  'm  thinking  of,"  said  Minturn.  "  I 
have  the  sauce  which  will  make  it  a  feast." 

"  Reckon  it's  gwine  on  twelve,"  said  Hiram,  cocking  his 
eye  at  the  sun.  "Hadn't  I  better  feed  de  critters?" 

"  Ah,  old  man  !  own  up,  now ;  you  've  got  a  backache," 
said  Minturn. 

"  Dere  is  kin'  ob  a  crik  comin'  —  " 

"  Drop  work,  all  hands,"  cried  Sue.  "  Mr.  Minturn  has 
a  '  crik  '  also,  but  he  's  too  proud  to  own  it.  How  you  '11 
groan  for  this  to-morrow,  sir  !  " 

"  If  you  take  that  view  of  the  case,  I  may  be  under  the 
necessity  of  giving  proof  positive  to  the  contrary  by  coming 
out  to-morrow." 

"  You  're  not  half  through  yet.  The  hardest  part  is  to 
come." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,"  he  replied  ;  and  he  gave  her  such  a 
humorously-appealing  glance  that  she  turned  quickly  to 
ward  the  house  to  hide  a  conscious  flush. 

The  farmer  showed  him  to  the  spare-room,  in  which  he 
found  his  belongings.  Left  to  make  his  toilet,  he  muttered, 
"  Ah,  better  and  better  !  This  is  not  the  regulation  re 
frigerator  into  which  guests  are  put  at  farm-houses.  All 
needed  for  solid  comfort  is  here,  even  to  a  slight  fire  in  the 
air-tight.  Now,  is  n't  that  rosy  old  lady  a  jewel  of  a  mother- 
in-law?  She  knows  that  a  warm  man  shouldn't  get  chilled 
just  as  well  as  if  she  had  studied  athletics.  Miss  Sue,  how- 


192         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

ever,  is  a  little  chilly.  She  's  on  the  fence  yet.  Jupiter  ! 
I  am  tired.  Oh,  well,  I  don't  believe  I  '11  have  seven  years 
of  this  kind  of  thing.  You  were  right,  though,  old  man,  if 
your  Rachel  was  like  mine.  What 's  that  rustle  in  the  other 
room  ?  She  's  dressing  for  dinner.  So  must  I ;  and  I  'm 
ready  for  it.  If  she  has  romantic  ideas  about  love  and  lost 
appetites,  I  'm  a  goner." 

When  he  descended  to  the  parlor,  his  old  stylish  self 
again,  Sue  was  there,  robed  in  a  gown  which  he  had  ad 
mired  before,  revealing  the  fact  to  her  by  approving  glances. 
But  now  he  said,  "  You  don't  look  half  so  well  as  you  did 
before." 

"  I  can't  say  that  of  you,"  she  replied. 

"  A  man's  looks  are  of  no  consequence." 

"  Few  men  think  so." 

"  Oh,  they  try  to  please  such  critical  eyes  as  I  now  am 
meeting." 

"  And  throw  dust  in  them  too  sometimes." 

"Yes;  gold  dust,  often.     I  haven't  much  of  that." 

"  It  would  be  a  pity  to  throw  it  away  if  you  had." 

"  No  matter  how  much  was  thrown,  I  don't  think  it  would 
blind  you,  Miss  Banning." 

The  dining-room  door  across  the  hall  opened,  and  the 
host  and  hostess  appeared.  "Why,  father  and  mother, 
how  fine  you  look  !  " 

"  It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  we  did  not  honor  this  day," 
said  Mrs.  Banning.  "  I  hope  you  have  not  so  tired  yourself, 
sir,  that  you  cannot  enjoy  your  dinner.  I  could  scarcely 
believe  my  eyes  as  I  watched  you  from  the  window." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  astonish  you  still  more  at  the  table. 
I  am  simply  ravenous." 

"  This  is  your  chance,"  cried  Sue.  "You  are  now  to  be 
paid  in  the  coin  you  asked  for." 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  1 93 

Sue  did  remark  to  herself  by  the  time  they  reached  des 
sert  and  coffee,  "  I  need  have  no  scruples  in  refusing  a 
man  with  such  an  appetite  ;  he  won't  pine.  He  is  a  law 
yer,  sure  enough.  He  is  just  winning  father  and  mother 
hand  over  hand." 

Indeed,  the  bosom  of  good  Mrs.  Banning  must  have  been 
environed  with  steel  not  to  have  had  throbs  of  good-will 
toward  orie  who  showed  such  hearty  appreciation  of  her  capi 
tal  dinner.  But  Sue  became  only  the  more  resolved  that  she 
was  not  going  to  yield  so  readily  to  this  muscular  suitor  who 
was  digging  and  eating  his  way  straight  into  the  hearts  of 
her  ancestors,  and  she  proposed  to  be  unusually  elusive  and 
alert  during  the  afternoon.  She  was  a  little  surprised  when 
he  resumed  his  old  tactics. 

After  drinking  a  second  cup  of  coffee,  he  rose,  and  said, 
"As  an  honest  man,  I  have  still  a  great  deal  to  do  after 
such  a  dinner." 

"Well,  it  has  just  done  me  good  to  see  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Banning,  smiling  genially  over  her  old-fashioned  coffee-pot. 
"  I  feel  highly  complimented." 

"  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  be  equal  to  another  such 
compliment  before  the  next  birthday.  I  hope,  Miss 
Susie,  you  have  observed  my  efforts  to  do  honor  to  the 
occasion?  " 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  girl,  "  I  naturally  supposed  you  were 
trying  to  get  even  in  your  bargain." 

"  I  hope  to  be  about  sundown.  I  '11  get  into  those  over 
alls  at  once,  and  I  trust  you  will  put  on  your  walking-suit." 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  a  walking-suit  for  a  short  time.  We 
must  walk  to  the  wood-lot  for  the  trees,  unless  you  prefer 
to  ride.  —  Father,  please  tell  Hiram  to  get  the  two-horse 
wagon  ready." 

When  the  old  people  were  left  alone,  the  farmer  said, 
13 


194         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Well,  mother,  Sue  has  got  a  suitor,  and  if  he  don't  suit 
her  —  "  And  then  his  wit  gave  out. 

"  There,  father,  I  never  thought  you  'd  come  to  that. 
It 's  well  she  has,  for  you  will  soon  have  to  be  taken  care 
of." 

"  He  's  got  the  muscle  to  do  it.  He  shall  have  my  law- 
business,  anyway." 

"  Thank  the  Lord,  it  is  n't  much  ;  but  that 's  hot  saying 
he  shall  have  Sue." 

"  Why,  what  have  you  against  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing  so  far.  I  was  only  finding  out  if  you  had  any 
thing  against  him." 

"  Lawyers,  indeed  !  What  would  become  of  the  men  if 
women  turned  lawyers.  Do  you  think  Sue  —  " 

"  Hush  !  " 

They  all  laughed  till  the  tears  came  when  Minturn  again 
appeared  dressed  for  work ;  but  he  nonchalantly  lighted  a 
cigar  and  was  entirely  at  his  ease. 

Sue  was  armed  with  thick  gloves  and  a  pair  of  pruning- 
nippers.  Minturn  threw  a  spade  and  pickaxe  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  Mr.  Banning,  whom  Sue  had  warned  threateningly 
"  never  to  be  far  away,"  tramped  at  their  side  as  they  went 
up  the  lane.  Apparently  there  was  no  need  of  such  precau 
tion,  for  the  young  man  seemed  wholly  bent  on  getting  up 
the  trees,  most  of  which  she  had  selected  and  marked  during 
recent  rambles.  She  helped  now  vigorously,  pulling  on  the 
young  saplings  as  they  loosened  the  roots,  then  trimming 
them  into  shape.  More  than  once,  however,  she  detected 
glances,  and  his  thoughts  were  more  flattering  than  she 
imagined.  "  What  vigor  she  has  in  that  supple,  rounded 
form  !  Her  very  touch  ought  to  put  life  into  these  trees ; 
I  know  it  would  into  me.  How  young  she  looks  in  that 
comical  old  dress  which  barely  reaches  her  ankles  !  Yes, 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  195 

Hal  Minturn ;  and  remember,  that  trim  little  ankle  can  put 
a  firm  foot  down  for  or  against  you,  — so  no  blundering." 

He  began  to  be  doubtful  whether  he  would  make  his 
grand  attack  that  day,  and  finally  decided  against  it,  unless 
a  very  favorable  opportunity  occurred,  until  her  plan  of 
birthday-work  had  been  carried  out  and  he  had  fulfilled  the 
obligation  into  which  he  had  entered  in  the  morning.  He 
labored  on  manfully,  seconding  all  her  wishes,  and  taking 
much  pains  to  get  the  young  trees  up  with  an  abundance  of 
fibrous  roots.  At  last  his  assiduity  induced  her  to  relent  a 
little,  and  she  smiled  sympathetically  as  she  remarked,  "  I 
hope  you  are  enjoying  yourself.  Well,  never  mind ;  some 
other  day  you  will  fare  better." 

"  Why  should  I  not  enjoy  myself  ?  "  he  asked  in  well- 
feigned  surprise.  "  What  condition  of  a  good  time  is  ab 
sent?  Even  an  April  day  has  forgotten  to  be  moody,  and 
we  are  having  unclouded,  genial  sunshine.  The  air  is  deli 
cious  with  springtime  fragrance.  Were  ever  hemlocks  so 
aromatic  as  these  young  fellows?  They  come  out  of  the 
ground  so  readily  that  one  would  think  them  aware  of  their 
proud  destiny.  Of  course  I  'm  enjoying  myself.  Even 
the  robins  and  sparrows  know  it,  and  are  singing  as  if 
possessed." 

"  Had  n't  you  better  give  up  your  law-office  and  turn 
farmer?  " 

"  This  is  n't  farming.     This  is  embroidery-work." 

"  Well,  if  all  these  trees  grow  they  will  embroider  the  old 
place,  won't  they?" 

"  They  '11  grow,  every  mother's  son  of  'em." 

"  What  makes  you  so  confident?  " 

"  I  'm  not  confident.  That 's  where  you  are  mistaken." 
And  he  gave  her  such  a  direct,  keen  look  that  she  suddenly 
found  something  to  do  elsewhere. 


196         TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

11 1  declare  !  "  she  exclaimed  mentally,  "  he  seems  to 
read  my  very  thoughts." 

At  last  the  wagon  was  loaded  with  trees  enough  to  oc 
cupy  the  holes  which  had  been  dug,  and  they  started  for  the 
vicinity  of  the  farm-house  again.  Mr.  Banning  had  no 
match-making  proclivities  where  Sue  was  concerned,  as  may 
be  well  understood,  and  had  never  been  far  off.  Minturn, 
however,  had  appeared  so  single-minded  in  his  work,  so 
innocent  of  all  designs  upon  his  daughter,  that  the  old  man 
began  to  think  that  this  day's  performance  was  only  a  ten 
tative  and  preliminary  skirmish,  and  that  if  there  were  dan 
ger  it  lurked  in  the  unknown  future.  He  was  therefore 
inclined  to  be  less  vigilant,  reasoning  philosophically,  "  I 
suppose  it 's  got  to  come  some  time  or  other.  It  looks  as 
if  Sue  might  go  a  good  deal  farther  than  this  young  man 
and  fare  worse.  But  then  she  's  only  eighteen,  and  he 
knows  it.  I  guess  he  's  got  sense  enough  not  to  plant  his 
corn  till  the  sun  's  higher.  He  can  see  with  half  an  eye 
that  my  little  girl  is  n't  ready  to  drop,  like  an  over-ripe 
apple."  Thus  mixing  metaphors  and  many  thoughts,  he 
hurried  ahead  to  open  the  gate  for  Hiram. 

"  I  'm  in  for  it  now,"  thought  Sue,  and  she  instinctively 
assumed  an  indifferent  expression  and  talked  volubly  of 
trees. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Banning,"  he  said  formally,  "  by  the  time 
your  hair  is  tinged  with  gray  the  results  of  this  day's  labor 
will  be  seen  far  and  wide.  No  passenger  in  the  cars,  no 
traveller  in  the  valley,  but  will  turn  his  eyes  admiringly  in 
this  direction." 

"  I  was  n't  thinking  of  travellers,"  she  answered,  "  but  of 
making  an  attractive  home  in  which  I  can  grow  old  con 
tentedly.  Some  day  when  you  have  become  a  gray-haired 
and  very  dignified  judge  you  may  come  out  and  dine  with 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  197 

us  again.     You  can  then  smoke  your  cigar  under  a  tree 
which  you  helped  to  plant." 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Banning.  With  such  a  prospect,  how 
could  you  doubt  that  I  was  enjoying  myself  ?  What  sug 
gested  the  judge?  My  present  appearance?" 

The  incongruity  of  the  idea  with  his  absurd  aspect  and  a 
certain  degree  of  nervousness  set  her  off  again,  and  she 
startled  the  robins  by  a  laugh  as  loud  and  clear  as  their  wild 
notes. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  cried.  "  I  Ve  had  a  jolly  birthday, 
and  am  accomplishing  all  on  which  I  had  set  my  heart." 

"  Yes,  and  a  great  deal  more,  Miss  Banning,"  he  replied 
with  a  formal  bow.  "  In  all  your  scheming  you  had  n't  set 
your  heart  on  my  coming  out  and  —  does  modesty  permit 
me  to  say  it?  —  helping  a  little." 

"  Now,  you  have  helped  wonderfully,  and  you  must  not 
think  I  don't  appreciate  it." 

"  Ah,  how  richly  I  am  rewarded  !  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  laughing  and  perplexed  little 
frown,  but  only  said,  "  No  irony,  sir." 

By  this  time  they  had  joined  her  father  and  begun  to  set 
out  the  row  of  hemlocks.  To  her  surprise,  Sue  had  found 
herself  a  little  disappointed  that  he  had  not  availed  himself 
of  his  one  opportunity  to  be  at  least  "  a  bit  friendly,"  as  she 
phrased  it.  It  was  mortifying  to  a  girl  to  be  expecting 
"something  awkward  to  meet"  and  nothing  of  the  kind 
take  place.  "  After  all,"  she  thought,  "  perhaps  he  came 
out  just  for  a  lark,  or  worse  still,  is  amusing  himself  at  my 
expense ;  or  he  may  have  come  on  an  exploring  expedi 
tion  and  plain  old  father  and  mother,  and  the  plain  little 
farm-house,  have  satisfied  him.  Well,  the  dinner  wasn't 
very  plain,  but  he  may  have  been  laughing  in  his  sleeve  at 
our  lack  of  style  in  serving  it.  Then  this  old  dress  !  I 


198         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

probably  appear  to  him  a  perfect  guy."  And  she  began  to 
hate  it,  and  devoted  it  to  the  rag-bag  the  moment  she  could 
get  it  off. 

This  line  of  thought,  once  begun,  seemed  so  rational  that 
she  wondered  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  before.  "  The 
idea  of  my  being  so  ridiculously  on  the  defensive  !  "  she 
thought.  "  No,  it  was  n't  ridiculous  either,  .as  far  as  my 
action  went,  for  he  can  never  say  I  acted  as  if  I  wanted  him 
to  speak.  My  conceit  in  expecting  him  to  speak  the  mo 
ment  he  got  a  chance  was  absurd.  He  has  begun  to  be 
very  polite  and  formal.  That 's  always  the  way  with  men 
when  they  want  to  back  out  of  anything.  He  came  out  to 
look  us  over,  and  me  in  particular ;  he  made  himself  into  a 
scarecrow  just  because  I  looked  like  one,  and  now  will  go 
home  and  laugh  it  all  over  with  his  city  friends.  Oh,  why 
did  he  come  and  spoil  my  day?  Even  he  said  it  was  my 
day,  and  he  has  done  a  mean  thing  in  spoiling  it.  Well,  he 
may  not  carry  as  much  self-complacency  back  to  town  as  he 
thinks  he  will.  Such  a  cold-blooded  spirit,  too  !  —  to  come 
upon  us  .unawares  in  order  to  spy  out  everything,  for  fear  he 
might  get  taken  in  !  You  were  very  attentive  and  flattering 
in  the  city,  sir,  but  now  you  are  disenchanted.  Well,  so 
am  I." 

Under  the  influence  of  this  train  of  thought  she  grew  more 
and  more  silent.  The  sun  was  sinking  westward  in  un- 
dimmed  splendor,  but  her  face  was  clouded.  The  air  was 
sweet,  balmy,  well  adapted  to  sentiment  and  the  setting  out 
of  trees,  but  she  was  growing  frosty. 

"Hiram,"  she  said  shortly,  "you  've  got  that  oak  crooked  ; 
let  me  hold  it."  And  thereafter  she  held  the  trees  for  the 
old  colored  man  as  he  filled  in  the  earth  around  them. 

Minturn  appeared  as  oblivious  as  he  was  keenly  observant. 
At  first  the  change  in  Sue  puzzled  and  discouraged  him; 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  199 

then,  as  his  acute  mind  sought  her  motives,  a  rosy  light 
began  to  dawn  upon  him.  "  I  may  be  wrong,"  he  thought, 
"  but  I  '11  take  my  chances  in  acting  as  if  I  were  right  before 
I  go  home." 

At  last  Hiram  said,  "  Reckon  I  '11  have  to  feed  de  critters 
again  ;  "  and  he  slouched  off. 

Sue  snipped  at  the  young  trees  farther  and  farther  away 
from  the  young  man  who  must  "play  spy  before  being 
lover."  The  spy  helped  Mr.  Banning  set  out  the  last  tree. 
Meantime,  the  complacent  farmer  had  mused,  "  The  little 
girl 's  safe  for  another  while,  anyhow.  Never  saw  her  more 
offish  ;  but  things  looked  squally  about  dinner-time.  Then, 
she  's  only  eighteen ;  time  enough  years  hence."  At  last 
he  said  affably,  "  I  '11  go  in  and  hasten  supper,  for  you  've 
earned  it  if  ever  a  man  did,  Mr.  Minturn.  Then  I  '11 
drive  you  down  to  the  evening  train."  And  he  hurried 
away. 

Sue's  back  was  toward  them,  and  she  did  not  hear  Min- 
turn's  step  until  he  was  close  beside  her.  "All  through," 
he  said  •  "  every  tree  out.  I  congratulate  you  ;  for  rarely 
in  this  vale  of  tears  are  plans  and  hopes  crowned  with  better 
success." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  hastened  to  reply;  "I  am  more  than 
satisfied.  I  hope  that  you  are  too." 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  complain,"  he  said.  "  You  have 
stood  by  your  morning's  bargain,  as  I  have  tried  to." 

"  It  was  your  own  fault,  Mr.  Minturn,  that  it  was  so  one 
sided.  But  I  Ve  no  doubt  you  enjoy  spicing  your  city  life 
with  a  little  lark  in  the  country." 

"  It  was  a  one-sided  bargain,  and  I  have  had  the  best  of 
it." 

"  Perhaps  you  have,"  she  admitted.  "  I  think  supper 
will  be  ready  by  the  time  we  are  ready  for  it."  And  she 


2OO         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

turned  toward  the  house.  Then  she  added,  "You  must  be 
weary  and  anxious  to  get  away." 

"  You  were  right ;  my  bones  do  ache.  And  look  at  my 
hands.  I  know  you'll  say  they  need  washing;  but  count 
the  blisters." 

"  I  also  said,  Mr.  Minturn,  that  you  would  know  better 
next  time.  So  you  see  I  was  right  then  and  am  right 
now." 

"  Are  you  perfectly  sure?  " 

"  I  see  no  reason  to  think  otherwise."  In  turning,  she 
had  faced  a  young  sugar-maple  which  he  had  aided  her  in 
planting  early  in  the  afternoon.  Now  she  snipped  at  it 
nervously  with  her  pruning-shears,  for  he  would  not  budge, 
and  she  felt  it  scarcely  polite  to  leave  him. 

"  Well,"  he  resumed,  after  an  instant,  "  it  has  a  good 
look,  has  n't  it,  for  a  man  to  fulfil  an  obligation  literally?  " 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Minturn,"  and  there  was  a  tremor  in  her 
tone ;  "  but  you  have  done  a  hundredfold  more  than  I  ex 
pected,  and  never  were  under  any  obligations." 

"Then  I  am  free  to  begin  again?" 

"  You  are  as  free  now  as  you  have  been  all  day  to  do 
what  you  please."  And  her  shears  were  closing  on  the  main 
stem  of  the  maple.  He  caught  and  stayed  her  hand.  "  I 
don't  care  !  "  she  cried  almost  passionately.  "  Come,  let 
us  go  in  and  end  this  foolish  talk." 

"  But  I  do  care,"  he  replied,  taking  the  shears  from  her, 
yet  retaining  her  hand  in  his  strong  grasp.  "  I  helped  you 
plant  this  tree,  and  whenever  you  see  it,  whenever  you  care 
for  it,  when,  in  time,  you  sit  under  its  shade  or  wonder  at 
its  autumn  hues,  I  wish  you  to  remember  that  I  told  you  of 
my  love  beside  it.  Dear  little  girl,  do  you  think  I  am  such  a 
blind  fool  that  I  could  spend  this  long  day  with  you  at  your 
home  and  not  feel  sorry  that  I  must  ever  go  away?  If  I 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  2OI 

could,  my  very  touch  should  turn  the  sap  of  this  maple  into 
vinegar.  To-day  I  Ve  only  tried  to  show  how  I  can  work 
for  you.  I  am  eager  to  begin  again,  and  for  life." 

At  first  Sue  had  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand,  but  its  tense 
ness  relaxed.  As  he  spoke,  she  turned  her  averted  face 
slowly  toward  him,  and  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  flashed 
a  deeper  crimson  into  her  cheeks.  Her  lionest  eyes  looked 
into  his  and  were  satisfied.  Then  she  suddenly  gathered 
the  young  tree  against  her  heart  and  kissed  the  stem  she 
had  so  nearly  severed.  "This  maple  is  witness  to  what 
you  Ve  said,"  she  faltered.  "  Ah  !  but  it  will  be  a  sugar- 
maple  in  truth ;  and  if  petting  will  make  it  live  —  there, 
now  !  behave  !  The  idea  !  right  out  on  this  bare  lawn  ! 
You  must  wait  till  the  screening  evergreens  grow  before  — 
Oh,  you  audacious  —  I  haven't  promised  anything." 

"  I  promise  everything.  I  'm  engaged,  and  only  taking 
my  retaining-fees." 

"  Mother,"  cried  Farmer  Banning  at  the  dining-room 
window,  "just  look  yonder!" 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say,  John  Banning,  that  you  did  n't 
expect  it?" 

"  Why,  Sue  was  growing  more  and  more  offish." 

"  Of  course  !     Don't  you  remember?  " 

"  Oh,  this  unlucky  birthday  !  As  if  trees  could  take  Sue's 
place  !  " 

"  Yah  !  "  chuckled  Hiram  from  the  barn  door,  "  I  knowed 
dat  ar  gem'lin  was  a-diggin'  a  hole  fer  hisself  on  dis 
farm." 

"  Mr.  Minturn  —  "  Sue  began  as  they  came  toward  the 
house  arm  in  arm. 

"  Hal  —  "he  interrupted. 

"Well,  then,  Mr.  Hal,  you  must  promise  me  one  thing 


202         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

in  dead  earnest.  I  'm  the  only  chick  father  and  mother 
have.  You  must  be  very  considerate  of  them,  and  let  me 
give  them  as  much  of  my  time  as  I  can.  This  is  all  that  I 
stipulate  ;  but  this  I  do." 

"Sue,"  he  said  in  mock  solemnity,  "  the  prospects  are 
that  you  '11  be  a  widow." 

"  Why  do  you  make  such  an  absurd  remark?  " 

"  Because  you  have  struck  amidships  the  commandment 
with  the  promise,  and  your  days  will  be  long  in  the  land. 
You  '11  outlive  everybody." 

"  This  will  be  no  joke  for  father  and  mother." 

So  it  would  appear.  They  sat  in  the  parlor  as  if  waiting 
for  the  world  to  come  to  an  end,  —  as  indeed  it  had,  one 
phase  of  it,  to  them.  Their  little  girl,  in  a  sense,  was  theirs 
no  longer. 

"  Father,  mother,"  said  Sue,  demurely,  "  I  must  break 
some  news  to  you." 

"  It 's  broken  already,"  began  Mrs.  Banning,  putting  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

Sue's  glance  renewed  her  reproaches  for  the  scene  on  the 
lawn ;  but  Minturn  went  promptly  forward,  and  throwing 
his  arm  around  the  matron's  plump  shoulders,  gave  his  first 
filial  kiss. 

"  Come,  mother,"  he  said,  "  Sue  has  thought  of  you 
both  ;  and  I  Ve  given  her  a  big  promise  that  I  won't  take 
any  more  of  her  away  than  I  can  help.  And  you,  sir/' 
wringing  the  farmer's  hand,  "  will  often  see  a  city  tramp 
here  who  will  be  glad  to  work  for  his  dinner.  These  over 
alls  are  my  witness." 

Then  they  became  conscious  of  his  absurd  figure,  and  the 
scene  ended  in  laughter  that  was  near  akin  to  tears. 

The    maple    lived,   you   may   rest    assured ;   and    Sue's 


QUEEN  OF  SPADES.  2O3 

children  said  there  never  was  such  sugar  as  the  sap  of  that 
tree  yielded. 

All  the  hemlocks,  oaks,  and  dogwood  thrived  as  if  con 
scious  that  theirs  had  been  no  ordinary  transplanting ;  while 
Minturn's  half-jesting  prophecy  concerning  the  travellers  in 
the  valley  was  amply  fulfilled. 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT. 


"  TACK,  she  played  with  me  deliberately,  heartlessly.  I 
J  can  never  forgive  her." 

"  In  that  case,  Will,  I  congratulate  you.  Such  a  girl 
is  n't  worth  a  second  thought,  and  you  Ve  made  a  happy 
escape." 

"  No  congratulations,  if  you  please.  You  can  talk 
coolly,  because  in  regard  to  such  matters  you  are  cool, 
and,  I  may  add,  a  trifle  cold.  Ambition  is  your  mistress, 
and  a  musty  law-book  has  more  attractions  for  you  than  any 
woman  living.  I  'm  not  so  tempered.  I  am  subject  to  the 
general  law  of  nature,  and  a  woman's  love  and  sympathy 
are  essential  to  success  in  my  life  and  work." 

"That's  all  right;  but  there  are  as  good  fish  — " 

"  Oh,  have  done  with  your  trite  nonsense,"  interrupted 
Will  Munson,  impatiently.  "  I  'd  consult  you  on  a  point  of 
law  in  preference  to  most  of  the  graybeards,  but  I  was  a 
fool  to  speak  of  this  affair.  And  yet  as  my  most  intimate 
friend—" 

"  Come,  Will,  I  'm  not  unfeeling ;  "  and  John  Ackland 
rose  and  put  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder.  "  I  admit 
that  the  subject  is  remote  from  my  line  of  thought  and 
wholly  beyond  my  experience.  If  the  affair  is  so  serious 
I  shall  take  it  to  heart." 

"  Serious  !     Is  it  a  slight  thing  to  be  crippled  for  life?  " 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  205 

"  Oh,  come,  now,"  said  Ackland,  giving  his  friend  a  hearty 
and  encouraging  thump,  "  you  are  sound  in  mind  and  limb ; 
what  matters  a  scratch  on  the  heart  to  a  man  not  twenty- 
five?" 

"  Very  well ;  I  '11  say  no  more  about  it.  When  I  need  a 
lawyer  I  '11  come  to  you.  Good-by ;  I  sail  for  Brazil  in  the 
morning." 

"Will,  sit  down  and  look  me  in  the  eyes,"  said  Ackland, 
decisively.  "Will,  forgive  me.  You  are  in  trouble.  A 
man's  eyes  usually  tell  me  more  than  all  his  words,  and  I 
don't  like  the  expression  of  yours.  There  is  yellow  fever 
in  Brazil." 

"  I  know  it,"  was  the  careless  reply. 

"  What  excuse  have  you  for  going?  " 

"  Business  complications  have  arisen  there,  and  I  promptly 
volunteered  to  go.  My  employers  were  kind  enough  to  hes 
itate  and  warn  me,  and  to  say  that  they  could  send  a  man 
less  valuable  to  them,  but  I  soon  overcame  their  objections." 

"That  is  your  excuse  for  going.  The  reason  I  see  in 
your  eyes.  You  are  reckless,  Will." 

"  I  have  reason  to  be." 

"  I  can't  agree  with  you,  but  I  feel  for  you  all  the  same. 
Tell  me  all  about  it,  for  this  is  sad  news  to  me.  I  had 
hoped  to  join  you  on  the  beach  in  a  few  days,  and  to 
spend  August  with  you  and  my  cousin.  I  confess  I  am 
beginning  to  feel  exceedingly  vindicitive  toward  this  pretty 
little  monster,  and  if  any  harm  comes  to  you  I  shall  be 
savage  enough  to  scalp  her." 

"  The  harm  has  come  already,  Jack.  I  'm  hit  hard.  She 
showed  me  a  mirage  of  happiness  that  has  made  my  present 
world  a  desert.  I  am  reckless  ;  I  'm  desperate.  You  may 
think  it  is  weak  and  unmanly,  but  you  don't  know  anything 
about  it.  Time  or  the  fever  may  cure  me,  but  now  I  am 


206         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

bankrupt  in  all  that  gives  value  to  life.  A  woman  with  an 
art  so  consummate  that  it  seemed  artless,  deliberately  evoked 
the  best  there  was  in  me,  then  threw  it  away  as  indifferently 
as  a  cast-off  glove." 

"Tell  me  how  it  came  about." 

"  How  can  I  tell  you  ?  How  can  I  in  cold  blood  recall 
glances,  words,  intonations,  the  pressure  of  a  hand  that 
seemed  alive  with  reciprocal  feeling?  In  addition  to  her 
beauty  she  had  the  irresistible  charm  of  fascination.  I  was 
wary  at  first,  but  she  angled  for  me  with  a  skill  that  would 
have  disarmed  any  man  who  did  not  believe  in  the  inherent 
falseness  of  woman.  The  children  in  the  house  idolized 
her,  and  I  have  great  faith  in  a  child's  intuitions." 

"  Oh,  that  was  only  a  part  of  her  guile,"  said  Ackland, 
frowningly. 

"  Probably ;  at  any  rate  she  has  taken  all  the  color  and 
zest  out  of  my  life.  I  wish  some  one  could  pay  her  back 
in  her  own  coin.  I  don't  suppose  she  has  a  heart ;  but  I 
wish  her  vanity  might  be  wounded  in  a  way  that  would 
teach  her  a  lesson  never  to  be  forgotten." 

"  It  certainly  would  be  a  well-deserved  retribution,"  said 
Ackland,  musingly. 

"  Jack,  you  are  the  one,  of  all  the  world,  to  administer 
the  punishment.  I  don't  believe  a  woman's  smiles  ever 
quickened  your  pulse  one  beat." 

"  You  are  right,  Will,  it  is  my  cold-bloodedness  —  to  put 
your  thought  in  plain  English  —  that  will  prove  your  best 
ally." 

"  I  only  hope  that  I  am  not  leading  you  into  danger. 
You  will  need  an  Indian's  stoicism." 

"  Bah  !  I  may  fail  ignominiously,  and  find  her  vanity  in 
vulnerable,  but  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  I  will  avenge 
you  if  it  be  within  the  compass  of  my  skill.  My  cousin, 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  20? 

Mrs.  Alston,  may  prove  a  useful  ally.  I  think  you  wrote  me 
that  the  name  of  this  siren  was  Eva  Van  Tyne?" 

"  Yes ;  I  only  wish  she  had  the  rudiments  of  a  heart,  so 
that  she  might  feel  in  a  faint,  far-off  way  a  little  of  the 
pain  she  has  inflicted  on  me.  Don't  let  her  make  you  falter 
or  grow  remorseful,  Jack.  Remember  that  you  have  given 
a  pledge  to  one  who  may  be  dead  before  you  can  fulfil  it." 

Ackland  said  farewell  to  his  friend  with  the  fear  that  he 
might  never  see  him  again,  and  a  few  days  later  found 
himself  at  a  New  England  seaside  resort,  with  a  relentless 
purpose  lurking  in  his  dark  eyes.  Mrs.  Alston  did  uncon 
sciously  prove  a  useful  ally,  for  her  wealth  and  elegance 
gave  her  unusual  prestige  in  the  house,  and  in  joining  her 
party  Ackland  achieved  immediately  all  the  social  recogni 
tion  he  desired. 

While  strolling  with  this  lady  on  the  piazza  he  observed 
the  object  of  his  quest,  and  was  at  once  compelled  to  make 
more  allowance  than  he  had  done  hitherto  for  his  friend's 
discomfiture.  Two  or  three  children  were  leaning  over  the 
young  girl's  chair,  and  she  was  amusing  them  by  some 
clever  caricatures.  She  was  not  so  interested,  however,  but 
that  she  soon  noted  the  new-comer,  and  bestowed  upon 
him  from  time  to  time  curious  and  furtive  glances.  That 
these  were  not  returned  seemed  to  occasion  her  some  sur 
prise,  for  she  was  not  accustomed  to  be  so  utterly  ignored, 
even  by  a  stranger.  A  little  later  Ackland  saw  her  consult 
ing  the  hotel  register. 

"  I  have  at  least  awakened  her  curiosity,"  he  thought. 

"  I  Ve  been  waiting  for  you  to  ask  me  who  that  pretty 
girl  is,"  said  Mrs.  Alston,  laughing ;  "  you  do  indeed  exceed 
all  men  in  indifference  to  women." 

"  I  know  all  about  that  girl,"  was  the  grim  reply.  "  She 
has  played  the  very  deuce  with  my  friend  Munson." 


2O8         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Alston,  indignantly,  "  it  was  the  most 
shameful  piece  of  coquetry  I  ever  saw.  She  is  a  puzzle  to 
me.  To  the  children  and  the  old  people  in  the  house  she 
is  consideration  and  kindness  itself;  but  she  appears  to  re 
gard  men  of  your  years  as  legitimate  game  and  is  perfectly 
remorseless.  So  beware  !  She  is  dangerous,  invulnerable 
as  you  imagine  yourself  to  be.  She  will  practise  her  wiles 
upon  you  if  you  give  her  half  a  chance,  and  her  art  has 
much  more  than  her  pretty  face  to  enforce  it.  She  is  un 
usually  clever." 

Ackland's  slight  shrug  was  so  contemptuous  that  his  cousin 
was  nettled,  and  she  thought,  "  I  wish  the  girl  could  disturb 
his  complacent  equinamity  just  a  little.  It  vexes  one  to  see 
a  man  so  indifferent ;  it 's  a  slight  to  woman ;  "  and  she  de 
termined  to  give  Miss  Van  Tyne  the  vantage-ground  of  an 
introduction  at  the  first  opportunity. 

And  this  occurred  before  the  evening  was  over.  To  her 
surprise  Ackland  entered  into  an  extended  conversation 
with  the  enemy.  ''Well,"  she  thought,  "if  he  begins  in 
this  style  there  will  soon  be  another  victim.  Miss  Van  Tyne 
can  talk  to  as  bright  a  man  as  he  is  and  hold  her  own. 
Meanwhile  she  will  assail  him  in  a  hundred  covert  ways. 
Out  of  regard  for  his  friend  he  should  have  shown  some 
disapproval  of  her ;  but  there  he  sits  quietly  talking  in  the 
publicity  of  the  parlor." 

"  Mrs.  Alston,"  said  a  friend  at  her  elbow,  "  you  ought  to 
forewarn  your  cousin  and  tell  him  of  Mr.  Munson's  fate." 

"  He  knows  all  about  Mr.  Munson,"  was  her  reply.  "  In 
deed,  the  latter  is  his  most  intimate  friend.  I  suppose  my 
cousin  is  indulging  in  a  little  natural  curiosity  concerning 
this  destroyer  of  masculine  peace,  and  if  ever  a  man  could 
do  so  in  safety  he  can." 

"Why  so?" 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT. 

"  Well,  I  never  knew  so  unsusceptible  a  man.  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  of  his  relatives,  he  has  never  cared  for 
ladies'  society." 

Mrs.  Alston  was  far  astray  in  supposing  that  curiosity  was 
Ackland's  motive  in  his  rather  prolonged  conversation  with 
Miss  Van  Tyne.  It  was  simply  part  of  his  tactics,  for  he 
proposed  to  waste  no  time  in  skirmishing  or  in  guarded  and 
gradual  approaches.  He  would  cross  weapons  at  once,  and 
secure  his  object  by  a  sharp  and  aggressive  campaign.  His 
object  was  to  obtain  immediately  some  idea  of  the  calibre 
of  the  girl's  mind,  and  in  this  respect  he  was  agreeably  sur 
prised,  for  while  giving  little  evidence  of  thorough  education, 
she  was  unusually  intelligent  and  exceedingly  quick  in  her 
perceptions.  He  soon  learned  also  that  she  was  gifted  with 
more  than  woman's  customary  intuition,  that  she  was  watch 
ing  his  face  closely  for  meanings  that  he  might  not  choose 
to  express  in  words  or  else  to  conceal  by  his  language. 
While  he  feared  that  his  task  would  be  far  more  difficult 
than  he  expected,  and  that  he  would  have  to  be  extremely 
guarded  in  order  not  to  reveal  his  design,  he  was  glad  to 
learn  that  the  foe  was  worthy  of  his  steel.  Meanwhile  her 
ability  and  self-reliance  banished  all  compunction.  He  had 
no  scruples  in  humbling  the  pride  of  a  woman  who  was  at 
once  so  proud,  so  heartless,  and  so  clever.  Nor  would  the 
effort  be  wearisome,  for  she  had  proved  herself  both  amus 
ing  and  interesting.  He  might  enjoy  it  quite  as  much  as 
an  intricate  law-case. 

Even  prejudiced  Ackland,  as  he  saw  her  occasionally  on 
the  following  day,  was  compelled  to  admit  that  she  was 
more  than  pretty.  Her  features  were  neither  regular  nor 
faultless.  Her  mouth  was  too  large  to  be  perfect  and  her 
nose  was  not  Grecian  ;  but  her  eyes  were  peculiarly  fine  and 
illumined  her  face,  whose  chief  charm  lay  in  its  power  of 


2IO         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

expression.  If  she  chose,  almost  all  her  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  could  find  their  reflex  there.  The  trouble  was  that  she 
could  as  readily  mask  her  thought  and  express  what  she 
did  not  feel.  Her  eyes  were  of  the  darkest  blue  and  her 
hair  seemed  light  in  contrast.  It  was  evident  that  she  had 
studied  grace  so  thoroughly  that  her  manner  and  carriage 
appeared  unstudied  and  natural.  She  never  seemed  self- 
conscious,  and  yet  no  one  had  ever  seen  her  in  an  ungainly 
posture  or  had  known  her  to  make  an  awkward  gesture, 
This  grace,  however,  like  a  finished  style  in  writing,  was 
tinged  so  strongly  with  her  own  individuality  that  it  appeared 
original  as  compared  with  the  fashionable  monotony  which 
characterized  the  manners  of  so  many  of  her  age.  She 
could  not  have  been  much  more  than  twenty;  and  yet,  as 
Mrs.  Alston  took  pains  to  inform  her  cousin,  she  had  long 
been  in  society,  adding,  "  Its  homage  is  her  breath  of  life, 
and  from  all  I  hear  your  friend  Munson  has  had  many  pre 
decessors.  Be  on  your  guard." 

"Your  solicitude  in  my  behalf  is  quite  touching,"  he 
replied.  "Who  is  this  fair  buccaneer  that  has  made  so 
many  wrecks  and  exacts  so  heavy  a  revenue  from  society? 
Who  has  the  care  of  her  and  what  are  her  antecedents?  " 

"  She  is  an  orphan,  and  possessed,  I  am  told,  of  consid 
erable  property  in  her  own  name.  A  forceless,  nerveless 
maiden  aunt  is  about  the  only  antecedent  we  see  much  of. 
Her  guardian  has  been  here  once  or  twice,  but  practically 
she  is  independent." 

Miss  Van  Tyne's  efforts  to  learn  something  concerning 
Ackland  were  apparently  quite  as  casual  and  indifferent  and 
yet  were  made  with  utmost  skill.  She  knew  that  Mrs. 
Alston's  friend  was  something  of  a  gossip  ;  and  she  led  her 
to  speak  of  the  subject  of  her  thoughts  with  an  indirect 
finesse  that  would  have  amused  the  young  man  exceedingly 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  211 

could  he  have  been  an  unobserved  witness.  When  she 
learned  that  he  was  Mr.  Munson's  intimate  friend  and  that 
he  was  aware  of  her  treatment  of  the  latter,  she  was  some 
what  disconcerted.  One  so  forewarned  might  not  become 
an  easy  prey.  But  the  additional  fact  that  he  was  almost  a 
woman-hater  put  her  upon  her  mettle  at  once,  and  she  felt 
that  here  was  a  chance  for  a  conquest  such  as  she  had  never 
made  before.  She  now  believed  that  she  had  discovered 
the  key  to  his  indifference.  He  was  ready  enough  to  amuse 
himself  with  her  as  a  clever  woman,  but  knew  her  too  well 
to  bestow  upon  her  even  a  friendly  thought. 

"  If  I  can  bring  him  to  my  feet  it  will  be  a  triumph  in 
deed,"  she  murmured  exultantly;  "  and  at  my  feet  he  shall 
be  if  he  gives  me  half  a  chance."  Seemingly  he  gave  her 
every  chance  that  she  could  desire,  and  while  he  scarcely 
made  any  effort  to  seek  her  society,  she  noted  with  secret 
satisfaction  that  he  often  appeared  as  if  accidentally  near 
her,  and  that  he  ever  made  it  the  easiest  and  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  her  to  join  him.  His  conversation 
was  often  as  gay  and  unconventional  as  she  could  wish  ;  but 
she  seldom  failed  to  detect  in  it  an  uncomfortable  element 
of  satire  and  irony.  He  always  left  her  dissatisfied  with 
herself  and  with  a  depressing  consciousness  that  she  had 
made  no  impression  upon  him. 

His  conquest  grew  into  an  absorbing  desire ;  and  she  un 
obtrusively  brought  to  bear  upon  him  every  art  and  fascina 
tion  that  she  possessed.  Her  toilets  were  as  exquisite  as 
they  were  simple.  The  children  were  made  to  idolize  her 
more  than  ever ;  but  Ackland  was  candid  enough  to  admit 
that  this  was  not  all  guile  on  her  part,  for  she  was  evidently 
in  sympathy  with  the  little  people,  who  can  rarely  be  im 
posed  upon  by  any  amount  of  false  interest.  Indeed,  he 
saw  no  reason  to  doubt  that  she  abounded  in  good-nature 


212          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

toward  all  except  the  natural  objects  of  her  ruling  passion ; 
but  the  very  skill  and  deliberateness  with  which  she  sought 
to  gratify  this  passion  greatly  increased  his  vindictive  feel 
ing.  He  saw  how  naturally  and  completely  his  friend  had 
been  deceived  and  how  exquisite  must  have  been  the  hopes 
and  anticipations  so  falsely  raised.  Therefore  he  smiled 
more  grimly  at  the  close  of  each  succeeding  day,  and  was 
more  than  ever  bent  upon  the  accomplishment  of  his 
purpose. 

At  length  Miss  Van  Tyne  changed  her  tactics  and  grew 
quite  oblivious  to  Ackland's  presence  in  the  house ;  but  she 
found  him  apparently  too  indifferent  to  observe  the  fact. 
She  then  permitted  one  of  her  several  admirers  to  become 
devoted  ;  Ackland  did  not  offer  the  protest  of  even  a  glance. 
He  stood,  as  it  were,  just  where  she  had  left  him,  ready  for 
an  occasional  chat,  stroll,  or  excursion,  if  the  affair  came 
about  naturally  and  without  much  effort  on  his  part.  She 
found  that  she  could  neither  induce  him  to  seek  her  nor 
annoy  him  by  an  indifference  which  she  meant  should  be 
more  marked  than  his  own. 

Some  little  time  after  there  came  a  windy  day  when  the 
surf  was  so  heavy  that  there  were  but  few  bathers.  Ackland 
was  a  good  swimmer,  and  took  his  plunge  as  usual.  He 
was  leaving  the  water  when  Miss  Van  Tyne  ran  down  the 
beach  and  was  about  to  dart  through  the  breakers  in  her 
wonted  fearless  style. 

"  Be  careful,"  he  said  to  her ;  "  the  undertow  is  strong, 
and  the  man  who  has  charge  of  the  bathing  is  ill  and  not 
here.  The  tide  is  changing,  —  in  fact,  running  out  already, 
I  believe."  But  she  would  not  even  look  at  him,  much  less 
answer.  As  there  were  other  gentlemen  present,  he  started 
for  his  bath-house,  but  had  proceeded  but  a  little  way  up  the 
beach  before  a  cry  brought  him  to  the  water's  edge  instantly. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  21 3 

"  Something  is  wrong  with  Miss  Van  Tyne,"  cried  half  a 
dozen  voices.  "  She  ventured  out  recklessly,  and  it  seems 
as  if  she  couldn't  get  back." 

At  that  moment  her  form  rose  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  and 
above  the  thunder  of  the  surf  came  her  faint  cry,  "  Help  !  " 

The  other  bathers  stood  irresolute,  for  she  was  danger 
ously  far  out,  and  the  tide  had  evidently  turned.  Ackland, 
on  the  contrary,  dashed  through  the  breakers  and  then,  in 
his  efforts  for  speed,  dove  through  the  waves  nearest  to  the 
shore.  When  he  reached  the  place  where  he  expected  to 
find  her  he  saw  nothing  for  a  moment  or  two  but  great 
crested  billows  that  every  moment  were  increasing  in  height 
under  the  rising  wind.  For  a  moment  he  feared  that  she 
had  perished,  and  the  thought  that  the  beautiful  creature 
had  met  her  death  so  suddenly  and  awfully  made  him  almost 
sick  and  faint.  An  instant  later,  however,  a  wave  threw  her 
up  from  the  trough  of  the  sea  into  full  vision  somewhat  on 
his  right,  and  a  few  strong  strokes  brought  him  to  her  side. 

"  Oh,  save  me  !  "  she  gasped. 

"  Don't  cling  to  me,"  he  said  sternly.  "  Do  as  I  bid  you. 
Strike  out  for  the  shore  if  you  are  able ;  if  not,  lie  on  your 
back  and  float." 

She  did  the  latter,  for  now  that  aid  had  reached  her  she 
apparently  recovered  from  her  panic  and  was  perfectly 
tractable.  He  placed  his  left  hand  under  her  and  struck 
out  quietly,  aware  that  the  least  excitement  causing  exhaus 
tion  on  his  part  might  cost  both  of  them  their  lives. 

As  they  approached  the  shore  a  rope  was  thrown  to  them, 
and  Ackland,  who  felt  his  strength  giving  way,  seized  it 
desperately.  He  passed  his  arm  around  his  companion 
with  a  grasp  that  almost  made  her  breathless,  and  they  were 
dragged,  half  suffocated,  through  the  water  until  strong  hands 
on  either  side  rushed  them  through  the  breakers. 


214         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Miss  Van  Tyne  for  a  moment  or  two  stood  dazed  and 
panting,  then  disengaged  herself  from  the  rather  warm  sup 
port  of  the  devoted  admirer  whom  she  had  tried  to  play 
against  Ackland,  and  tried  to  walk,  but  after  a  few  uncertain 
steps  fell  senseless  on  the  sand,  thus  for  the  moment  drawing 
to  herself  the  attention  of  the  increasing  throng.  Ackland, 
glad  to  escape  notice,  was  staggering  off  to  his  bath-house 
when  several  ladies,  more  mindful  of  his  part  in  the  affair 
than  the  men  had  been,  overtook  him  with  a  fire  of  ques 
tions  and  plaudits. 

"  Please  leave  me  alone,"  he  said  almost  savagely,  with 
out  looking  around. 

"  What  a  bear  he  is  !  Any  one  else  would  have  been  a 
little  complacent  over  such  an  exploit,"  they  chorused,  as 
they  followed  the  unconscious  girl,  who  was  now  being  car 
ried  to  the  hotel. 

Ackland  locked  the  door  of  his  little  apartment  and  sank 
panting  on  the  bench.  "Maledictions  on  her!"  he  mut 
tered.  "  At  one  time  there  was  a  better  chance  of  her  being 
fatal  to  me  than  to  Munson  with  his  yellow- fever  tragedy  in 
prospect.  Her  recklessness  to-day  was  perfectly  insane. 
If  she  tries  it  again  she  may  drown  for  all  that  I  care,  or  at 
least  ought  to  care." 

His  anger  appeared  to  act  like  a  tonic,  and  he  was  soon 
ready  to  return  to  the  house.  A  dozen  sprang  forward  to 
congratulate  him,  but  they  found  such  impatience  and  an 
noyance  at  all  reference  to  the  affair  that  with  many  sur 
mises  the  topic  was  dropped. 

"  You  are  a  queer  fellow,"  remarked  his  privileged  cousin, 
as  he  took  her  out  to  dinner.  "  Why  don't  you  let  people 
speak  naturally  about  the  matter,  or  rather,  why  don't  you 
pose  as  the  hero  of  the  occasion?  " 

"  Because  the  whole  affair  was  most  unnatural,  and  I  am 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  21$ 

deeply  incensed.  In  a  case  of  necessity  I  am  ready  to  risk 
my  life,  although  it  has  unusual  attractions  for  me ;  but  I  'm 
no  melodramatic  hero  looking  for  adventures.  What  neces 
sity  was  there  in  this  case  ?  It  is  the  old  story  of  Munson 
over  again  in  another  guise.  The  act  was  that  of  an  incon 
siderate,  heartless  woman  who  follows  her  impulses  and  in 
clinations,  no  matter  what  maybe  the  consequences."  After 
a  moment  he  added  less  indignantly,  "  I  must  give  her 
credit  for  one  thing,  angry  as  I  am,  —  she  behaved  well  in 
the  water,  otherwise  she  would  have  drowned  me." 

"  She  is  not  a  fool.  Most  women  would  have  drowned 
you." 

"  She  is  indeed  not  a  fool  j  therefore  she 's  the  more  to 
blame.  If  she  is  ever  so  reckless  again,  may  I  be  asleep  in 
my  room.  Of  course  one  can't  stand  by  and  see  a  woman 
drown,  no  matter  who  or  what  she  is." 

"Jack,  what  made  her  so  reckless?"  Mrs.  Alston  asked, 
with  a  sudden  intelligence  lighting  up  her  face. 

"Hang  it  all !  How  should  I  know?  What  made  her 
torture  Munson?  She  follows  her  impulses,  and  they  are 
not  always  conducive  to  any  one's  well-being,  not  even  her 
own." 

"  Mark  my  words,  she  has  never  shown  this  kind  of  reck 
lessness  before." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  has.  She  was  running  her  horse  to  death 
the  other  hot  morning  and  nearly  trampled  on  a  child  ;  " 
and  he  told  of  an  unexpected  encounter  while  he  was  taking 
a  rather  extended  ramble. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Alston,  smiling  significantly, 
"  I  think  I  understand  her  symptoms  better  than  you  do. 
If  you  are  as  cold-blooded  as  you  seem,  I  may  have  to 
interfere." 

"  Oh,  bah  !  "  he  answered  impatiently.    "  Pardon  me,  but 


216         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

I  should  despise  myself  forever  should  I  become  sentimental, 
knowing  what  I  do." 

"  Jack,  had  you  no  compunctions  when  fearing  that  such 
a  beautiful  girl  might  perish?  We  are  going  to  have  an 
awful  night.  Hear  the  wind  whistle  and  moan,  and  the  sky 
is  already  black  with  clouds.  The  roar  of  the  surf  grows 
louder  every  hour.  Think  of  that  lovely  form  being  out  in 
those  black  angry  waves,  darted  at  and  preyed  upon  by 
horrible  slimy  monsters.  Oh,  it  fairly  makes  my  flesh 
creep  !  " 

"  And  mine  too,"  he  said  with  a  strong  gesture  of  dis 
gust  ;  "  especially  when  I  remember  that  I  should  have 
kept  her  company,  for  of  course  I  could  not  return  without 
her.  I  confess  that  when  at  first  I  could  not  find  her  I  was 
fairly  sick  at  the  thought  of  her  fate.  But  remember  how 
uncalled  for  it  all  was,  —  quite  as  much  so  as  that  poor 
Will  Munson  is  on  his  way  to  die  with  the  yellow  fever,  like 
enough." 

"  Jack,"  said  his  cousin,  affectionately,  laying  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  "  blessings  on  your  courage  to-day  !  If  what  might 
have  happened  so  easily  had  occurred,  I  could  never  have 
looked  upon  the  sea  again  without  a  shudder.  I  should 
have  been  tormented  by  a  horrible  memory  all  my  life.  It 
was  brave  and  noble  — " 

"  Oh,  hush  !  "  he  said  angrily.  "  I  won't  hear  another 
word  about  it  even  from  you.  I  'm  not  brave  and  noble. 
I  went  because  I  was  compelled  to  go ;  I  hated  to  go.  I 
hate  the  girl,  and  have  more  reason  now  than  ever.  If  we 
had  both  drowned,  no  doubt  there  would  have  been  less 
trouble  in  the  world.  There  would  have  been  one  lawyer 
the  less,  and  a  coquette  extinguished.  Now  we  shall  both 
prey  on  society  in  our  different  ways  indefinitely." 

"Jack,  you  are  in  an  awful  mood  to-day." 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT. 

"  I  am  ;  never  was  in  a  worse." 

"  Having  so  narrowly  escaped  death,  you  ought  to  be  sub 
dued  and  grateful." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  'm  inclined  to  profanity.  Excuse 
me ;  don't  wish  any  dessert.  I  '11  try  a  walk  and  a  cigar. 
You  will  now  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  me  on  any  terms." 

"  Stay,  Jack.  See,  Miss  Van  Tyne  has  so  far  recovered 
as  to  come  down.  She  looked  unutterable  things  at  you  as 
she  entered." 

"  Of  course  she  did.  Very  few  of  her  thoughts  concern 
ing  me  or  other  young  men  would  sound  well  if  uttered. 
Tell  your  friends  to  let  this  topic  alone,  or  I  shall  be  rude 
to  them,"  and  without  a  glance  toward  the  girl  he  had 
rescued  he  left  the  dining-room. 

"  Well,  well,"  murmured  Mrs.  Alston,  "  I  never  saw  Jack 
in  such  a  mood  before.  It  is  quite  as  unaccountable  as 
Miss  Van  Tyne's  recklessness.  I  wonder  what  is  the  mat 
ter  with  him" 

Ackland  was  speedily  driven  back  from  his  walk  by  the 
rain,  which  fact  he  did  not  regret,  for  he  found  himself  ex 
hausted  and  depressed.  Seeking  a  retired  piazza  in  order 
to  be  alone,  he  sat  down  with  his  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes 
and  smoked  furiously.  Before  very  long,  however,  he  was 
startled  out  of  a  painful  revery  by  a  timid  voice  saying,  — 

"  Mr.  Ackland,  won't  you  permit  me  to  thank  you?  " 

He  rose.  Miss  Van  Tyne  stood  before  him  with  out 
stretched  hand.  He  did  not  notice  it,  but  bowing  coldly, 
said,  — 

"  Please  consider  that  you  have  thanked  me  and  let  the 
subject  drop." 

"  Do  not  be  so  harsh  with  me,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  cannot 
help  it  if  you  are.  Mr.  Ackland,  you  saved  my  life." 

"  Possibly." 


2l8          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  And  possibly  you  think  that  it  is  scarcely  worth  saving." 

"  Possibly  your  own  conscience  suggested  that  thought  to 
you." 

"  You  are  heartless,"  she  burst  out  indignantly. 

He  began  to  laugh.  "  That 's  a  droll  charge  for  you  to 
make,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  steadfastly  for  a  moment,  and  then 
murmured,  "  You  are  thinking  of  your  friend,  Mr.  Munson." 

"  That  would  be  quite  natural.  How  many  more  can  you 
think  of  ?  " 

"  You  are  indeed  unrelenting,"  she  faltered,  tears  coming 
into  her  eyes  ;  "  but  I  cannot  forget  that  but  for  you  I  should 
now  be  out  there"  —  and  she  indicated  the  sea  by  a  gesture, 
then  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  shuddered. 

"  Do  not  feel  under  obligations.  I  should  have  been 
compelled  to  do  as  much  for  any  human  being.  You  seem 
to  forget  that  I  stood  an  even  chance  of  being  out  there 
with  you,  and  that  there  was  no  more  need  of  the  risk  than 
there  was  that  my  best  friend's  life  should  be  blight  — 

"You  —  you  out  there?"  she  cried,  springing  toward 
him  and  pointing  to  the  sea. 

"  Certainly.  You  cannot  suppose  that  having  once  found 
you,  I  could  come  ashore  without  you.  As  it  was,  my 
strength  was  rapidly  giving  way,  and  were  it  not  for  the 
rope  — 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,"  she  cried  passionately,  seizing  his  hand 
in  spite  of  him.  "  It  never  entered  my  mind  that  you 
could  drown.  I  somehow  felt  that  nothing  could  harm  you. 
I  was  reckless  —  I  did  n't  know  what  I  was  doing  —  I  don't 
understand  myself  any  more.  Please  —  please  forgive 
me,  or  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night." 

"Certainly,"  he  said  lightly,  "if  you  will  not  refer  to  our 
little  episode  again." 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  2IQ 

"  Please  don't  speak  in  that  way,"  she  sighed,  turning 
away. 

"  I  have  complied  with  your  request." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  be  content,"  she  resumed  sadly. 
Then  turning  her  head  slowly  toward  him  she  added  hesi 
tatingly,  "  Will  you  forgive  me  for  —  for  treating  your 
friend  —  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  with  such  stern  emphasis  that  she 
shrank  from  him  and  trembled. 

"  You  are  indeed  heartless,"  she  faltered,  as  she  turned 
to  leave  him. 

"  Miss  Van  Tyne,"  he  said  indignantly,  "  twice  you  have 
charged  me  with  being  heartless.  Your  voice  and  manner 
indicate  that  I  would  be  unnatural  and  unworthy  of  respect 
were  I  what  you  charge.  In  the  name  of  all  that 's  rational 
what  does  this  word  '  heartless  '  mean  to  you  ?  Where  was 
your  heart  when  you  sent  my  friend  away  so  wretched  and 
humbled  that  he  is  virtually  seeking  the  death  from  which 
you  are  so  glad  to  escape?" 

"  I  did  not  love  him,"  she  protested  faintly. 

He  laughed  bitterly,  and  continued,  "  Love  !  That 's  a 
word  which  I  believe  has  no  meaning  for  you  at  all,  but 
it  had  for  him.  You  are  a  remarkably  clever  woman,  Miss 
Van  Tyne.  You  have  brains  in  abundance.  See,  I  do  you 
justice.  What  is  more,  you  are  beautiful  and  can  be  so 
fascinating  that  a  man  who  believed  in  you  might  easily 
worship  you.  You  made  him  believe  in  you.  You  tried  to 
beguile  me  into  a  condition  that  with  my  nature  would 
be  ruin  indeed.  You  never  had  the  baby  plea  of  a  silly, 
shallow  woman.  I  took  pains  to  find  that  out  the  first 
evening  we  met.  In  your  art  of  beguiling  an  honest,  trust 
ing  man  you  were  as  perfect  as  you  were  remorseless,  and 
you  understood  exactly  what  you  were  doing." 


220         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

For  a  time  she  seemed  overwhelmed  by  his  lava-like 
torrent  of  words,  and  stood  with  bowed  head  and  shrinking, 
trembling  form ;  but  when  he  ceased  she  turned  to  him  and 
said  bitterly  and  emphatically,  — 

"  I  did  not  understand  what  I  was  doing,  nor  would  my 
brain  have  taught  me  were  I  all  intellect  like  yourself.  I 
half  wish  you  had  left  me  to  drown,"  and  with  a  slight, 
despairing  gesture  she  turned  away  and  did  not  look 
back. 

Ackland's  face  lighted  up  with  a  sudden  flash  of  intelli 
gence  and  deep  feeling.  He  started  to  recall  her,  hesitated, 
and  watched  her  earnestly  until  she  disappeared ;  then 
looking  out  on  the  scowling  ocean,  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
exclaimed  in  a  deep,  low  tone, — 

"  By  all  that 's  divine,  can  this  be?  Is  it  possible  that 
through  the  suffering  of  her  own  awakening  heart  she  is 
learning  to  know  the  pain  she  has  given  to  others?  Should 
this  be  true,  the  affair  is  taking  an  entirely  new  aspect,  and 
Munson  will  be  avenged  as  neither  of  us  ever  dreamed 
would  be  possible." 

He  resumed  his  old  position  and  thought  long  and  deeply, 
then  rejoined  his  cousin,  who  was  somewhat  surprised  to 
find  that  his  bitter  mood  had  given  place  to  his  former 
composure. 

"  How  is  this,  Jack?"  she  asked.  "As  the  storm  grows 
wilder  without,  you  become  more  serene." 

"  Only  trying  to  make  amends  for  my  former  bearishness," 
he  said  carelessly,  but  with  a  little  rising  color. 

"I  don't  understand  you  at  all,"  she  continued  discon 
tentedly.  "  I  saw  you  sulking  in  that  out-of-the-way  corner, 
and  I  saw  Miss  Van  Tyne  approach  you  hesitatingly  and 
timidly,  with  the  purpose,  no  doubt,  of  thanking  you.  Of 
course  I  did  not  stay  to  watch,  but  a  little  later  I  met  Miss 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  221 

Van  Tyne,  and  she  looked  white  and  rigid.  She  has  not 
left  her  room  since." 

"  You  take  a  great  interest  in  Miss  Van  Tyne.  It  is  well 
you  are  not  in  my  place." 

"  I  half  wish  I  was  and  had  your  chances.  You  are  more 
pitiless  than  the  waves  from  which  you  saved  her." 

"  I  can't  help  being  just  what  I  am,"  he  said  coldly. 
"  Good-night."  And  he  too  disappeared  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

The  rain  continued  to  fall  in  blinding  torrents,  and  the 
building  fairly  trembled  under  the  violence  of  the  wind. 
The  guests  drew  together  in  the  lighted  rooms,  and  sought 
by  varied  amusements  to  pass  the  time  until  the  fierceness 
of  the  storm  abated,  few  caring  to  retire  while  the  uproar  of 
the  elements  was  so  great. 

At  last  as  the  storm  passed  away,  and  the  late-rising 
moon  threw  a  sickly  gleam  on  the  tumultuous  waters,  Eva 
looked  from  her  window  with  sleepless  eyes,  thinking  -sadly 
and  bitterly  of  the  past  and  future.  Suddenly  a  dark  fig 
ure  appeared  on  the  beach  in  the  track  of  the  moonlight. 
She  snatched  an  opera-glass,  but  could  not  recognize  the 
solitary  form.  The  thought  would  come,  however,  that  it 
was  Ackland ;  and  if  it  were,  what  were  his  thoughts  and 
what  place  had  she  in  them  ?  Why  was  he  watching  so 
near  the  spot  that  might  have  been  their  burial-place? 

"At  least  he  shall  not  think  that  I  can  stolidly  sleep 
after  what  has  occurred,"  she  thought,  and  she  turned  up 
her  light,  opened  her  window,  and  sat  down  by  it  again. 
Whoever  the  unseasonable  rambler  might  be,  he  appeared 
to  recognize  the  gleam  from  her  window,  for  he  walked 
hastily  down  the  beach  and  disappeared.  After  a  time  she 
darkened  her  room  again  and  waited  in  vain  for  his  return. 
"If  it  were  he,  he  shuns  even  the  slightest  recognition," 


222         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

she  thought  despairingly ;  and  the  early  dawn  was  not  far 
distant  when  she  fell  into  an  unquiet  sleep. 

For  the  next  few  days  Miss  Van  Tyne  was  a  puzzle  to  all 
except  Mrs.  Alston.  She  was  quite  unlike  the  girl  she  had 
formerly  been,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  disguise  the  fact. 
In  the  place  of  her  old  exuberance  of  life  and  spirits,  there 
was  lassitude  and  great  depression.  The  rich  color  ebbed 
steadily  from  her  face,  and  dark  lines  under  her  eyes 
betokened  sleepless  nights.  She  saw  the  many  curious 
glances  in  her  direction,  but  apparently  did  not  care  what 
was  thought  or  surmised.  Were  it  not  that  her  manner  to 
Ackland  was  so  misleading,  the  tendency  to  couple  their 
names  together  would  have  been  far  more  general.  She 
neither  sought  nor  shunned  his  society ;  in  fact,  she  treated 
him  as  she  did  the  other  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance. 
She  took  him  at  his  word.  He  had  said  he  would  forgive 
her  on  condition  that  she  would  not  speak  of  what  he  was 
pleased  to  term  that  "  little  episode,"  and  she  never  referred 
to  it. 

Her  aunt  was  as  much  at  fault  as  the  others,  and  one  day 
querulously  complained  to  Mrs.  Alston  that  she  was  growing 
anxious  about  Eva.  "  At  first  I  thought  she  was  disap 
pointed  over  the  indifference  of  that  icy  cousin  of  yours  ; 
but  she  does  not  appear  to  care  a  straw  for  him.  When  I 
mention  his  name  she  speaks  of  him  in  a  natural,  grateful 
way,  then  her  thoughts  appear  to  wander  off  to  some  mat 
ter  that  is  troubling  her.  I  can't  find  out  whether  she  is  ill 
or  whether  she  has  heard  some  bad  news  of  which  she  will 
not  speak.  She  never  gave  me  or  any  one  that  I  know  of 
much  of  her  confidence." 

Mrs.  Alston  listened  but  made  no  comments.  She  was 
sure  she  was  right  in  regard  to  Miss  Van  Tyne's  trouble, 
but  her  cousin  mystified  her.  Ackland  had  become  per- 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  22$ 

fectly  inscrutable.  As  far  as  she  could  judge  by  any  word 
or  act  of  his  he  had  simply  lost  his  interest  in  Miss  Van 
Tyne,  and  that  was  all  that  could  be  said ;  and  yet  a  fine 
instinct  tormented  Mrs.  Alston  with  the  doubt  that  this  was 
not  true  and  that  the  young  girl  was  the  subject  of  a  sedu 
lously-concealed  scrutiny.  Was  he  watching  for  his  friend 
or  for  his  own  sake,  or  was  he,  in  a  spirit  of  retaliation, 
enjoying  the  suffering  of  one  who  had  made  others  suffer? 
His  reserve  was  so  great  that  she  could  not  pierce  it,  and 
his  caution  baffled  even  her  vigilance.  But  she  waited  pa 
tiently,  assured  that  the  little  drama  must  soon  pass  into  a 
more  significant  phase. 

And  she  was  right.  Miss  Van  Tyne  could  not  maintain 
the  line  of  action  she  had  resolved  upon.  She  had  thought, 
"  I  won't  try  to  appear  happy  when  I  am  not.  I  won't 
adopt  the  conventional  mask  of  gayety  when  the  heart  is 
wounded.  How  often  I  have  seen  through  it  and  smiled 
at  the  transparent  farce,  —  farce  it  seemed  then,  but  I  now 
fear  it  was  often  tragedy.  At  any  rate  there  was  neither 
dignity  nor  deception  in  it.  I  have  done  with  being  false, 
and  so  shall  simply  act  myself  and  be  a  true  woman. 
Though  my  heart  break  a  thousand  times,  not  even  by  a 
glance  shall  I  show  that  it  is  breaking  for  him.  If  he  or 
others  surmise  the  truth  they  may ;  let  them.  It  is  a  part 
of  my  penance ;  and  I  will  show  the  higher,  stronger  pride 
of  one  who  makes  no  vain,  useless  pretence  to  happy  in 
difference,  but  who  can  maintain  a  self-control  so  perfect 
that  even  Mrs.  Alston  shall  not  see  one  unmaidenly  advance 
or  overture." 

She  succeeded  for  a  time,  as  we  have  seen,  but  she  over 
rated  her  will  and  underrated  her  heart,  that  with  deepening 
intensity  craved  the  love  denied  her.  With  increasing  fre 
quency  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  must  go  away.  My  only 


224          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

course  is  to  hide  my  weakness  and  never  see  him  again. 
He  is  inflexible,  yet  'his  very  obduracy  increases  my  love 
a  hundredfold." 

At  last  after  a  lonely  walk  on  the  beach  she  concluded, 
"  My  guardian  must  take  me  home  on  Monday  next.  He 
comes  to-night  to  spend  Sunday  with  us,  and  I  will  make 
preparations  to  go  at  once." 

Although  her  resolution  did  not  fail  her,  she  walked  for 
ward  more  and  more  slowly,  her  dejection  and  weariness 
becoming  almost  overpowering.  As  she  was  turning  a 
sharp  angle  of  rocks  that  jutted  well  down  to  the  water  she 
came  face  to  face  with  Ackland  and  Mrs.  Alston.  She  was 
off  her  guard  ;  and  her  thoughts  of  him  had  been  so  absorb 
ing  that  she  felt  he  must  be  conscious  of  them.  She  flushed 
painfully  and  hurried  by  with  slight  recognition  and  down 
cast  face,  but  she  had  scarcely  passed  them  when,  acting 
under  a  sudden  impulse,  she  stopped  and  said  in  a  low 
tone,  — 

"  Mr.  Ackland  —  " 

He  turned  expectantly  toward  her.  For  a  moment  she 
found  it  difficult  to  speak,  then  ignoring  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Alston,  resolutely  began,— 

"  Mr.  Ackland,  I  must  refer  once  more  to  a  topic  which 
you  have  in  a  sense  forbidden.  I  feel  partially  absolved, 
however,  for  I  do  not  think  you  have  forgiven  me  anything. 
At  any  rate  I  must  ask  your  pardon  once  more  for  having 
so  needlessly  and  foolishly  imperilled  your  life.  I  say  these 
words  now  because  I  may  not  have  another  opportunity ; 
we  leave  on  Monday."  With  this  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
his  with  an  appeal  for  a  little  kindness  which  Mrs.  Alston 
was  confident  could  not  be  resisted.  Indeed,  she  was  sure 
that  she  saw  a  slight  nervous  tremor  in  Ackland's  hands,  as 
if  he  found  it  hard  to  control  himself.  Then  he  appeared 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  22$ 

to  grow   rigid.     Lifting  his    hat,   he   said   gravely  and  un- 
responsively,  — 

"  Miss  Van  Tyne,  you  now  surely  have  made  ample 
amends.  Please  forget  the  whole  affair." 

She  turned  from  him  at  once,  but  not  so  quickly  but  that 
both  he  and  his  cousin  saw  the  bitter  tears  that  would  come. 
A  moment  later  she  was  hidden  by  the  angle  of  the  rock. 
As  long  as  she  was  visible  Ackland  watched  her  without 
moving,  then  he  slowly  turned  to  his  cousin,  his  face  as 
inscrutable  as  ever.  She  walked  at  his  side  for  a  few 
moments  in  ill-concealed  impatience,  then  stopped  and 
said  decisively,  — 

"  I  '11  go  no  farther  with  you  to-day.  I  am  losing  all 
respect  for  you." 

Without  speaking,  he  turned  to  accompany  her  back  to 
the  house.  His  reticence  and  coldness  appeared  to  annoy 
her  beyond  endurance,  for  she  soon  stopped  and  sat  down 
on  a  ledge  of  the  rocks  that  jutted  down  the  beach  where 
they  had  met  Miss  Van  Tyne. 

"John,  you  are  the  most  unnatural  man  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life,"  she  began  angrily. 

"  What  reason  have  you  for  so  flattering  an  opinion,"  he 
asked  coolly. 

"  You  have  been  giving  reason  for  it  every  day  sine*  you 
came  here,"  she  resumed  hotly.  "  I  always  heard  it  said 
that  you  had  no  heart ;  but  I  defended  you  and  declared 
that  your  course  toward  your  mother  even  when  a  boy 
showed  that  you  had,  and  that  you  would  prove  it  some 
day.  But  I  now  bdieve  that  you  are  unnaturally  cold, 
heartless,  and  unfeeling.  I  had  no  objection  to  your  wound 
ing  Miss  Van  Tyne's  vanity  and  encouraged  you  when  that 
alone  bid  fair  to  suffer.  But  when  she  proved  she  had  a 
heart  and  that  you  had  awakened  it,  she  deserved  at  least 

15 


226         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

kindness  and  consideration  on  your  part.  If  you  could  not 
return  her  affection,  you  should  have  gone  away  at  once ; 
but  I  believe  that  you  have  stayed  for  the  sole  and  cruel 
purpose  of  gloating  over  her  suffering." 

"  She  has  not  suffered  more  than  my  friend,  or  than  I 
would  if—" 

"  You  indeed  !  The  idea  of  your  suffering  from  any 
such  cause  !  I  half  believe  you  came  here  with  the  de 
liberate  purpose  of  avenging  your  friend,  and  that  you  are 
keeping  for  his  inspection  a  diary  in  which  the  poor  girl's 
humiliation  to-day  will  form  the  hateful  climax." 

They  did  not  dream  that  the  one  most  interested  was 
near.  Miss  Van  Tyne  had  felt  too  faint  and  sorely  wounded 
to  go  farther  without  rest.  Believing  that  the  rocks  would 
hide  her  from  those  whose  eyes  she  would  most  wish  to 
shun,  she  had  thrown  herself  down  beyond  the  angle  and 
was  shedding  the  bitterest  tears  that  she  had  ever  known. 
Suddenly  she  heard  Mrs.  Alston's  words  but  a  short  dis 
tance  away,  and  was  so  overcome  by  their  import  that  she 
hesitated  what  to  do.  She  would  not  meet  them  again 
for  the  world,  but  felt  so  weak  that  she  doubted  whether  she 
could  drag  herself  away  without  being  discovered,  especially 
as  the  beach  trended  off  to  the  left  so  sharply  a  little  farther 
on  that  they  might  discover  her.  While  she  was  looking 
vainly  for  some  way  of  escape  she  heard  Ackland's  words 
and  Mrs.  Alston's  surmise  in  reply  that  he  had  come  with 
the  purpose  of  revenge.  She  was  so  stung  by  their  ap 
parent  truth  that  she  resolved  to  clamber  up  through  an 
opening  of  the  rocks  if  the  thing  were  possible.  Panting 
and  exhausted  she  gained  the  summit,  and  then  hastened 
to  an  adjacent  grove,  as  some  wounded,  timid  creature 
would  run  to  the  nearest  cover.  Ackland  had  heard  sounds 
and  had  stepped  around  the  point  of  the  rocks  just  in  time 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  22? 

to  see  her  disappearing  above  the  bank.     Returning  to  Mrs. 
Alston,  he  said  impatiently, — 

"  In  view  of  your  opinions  my  society  can  have  no 
attractions  for  you.  Shall  I  accompany  you  to  the 
hotel?" 

"  No,"  was  the  angry  reply.  "  I  'm  in  no  mood  to  speak 
to  you  again  to-day." 

He  merely  bowed  and  turned  as  if  to  pursue  his  walk. 
The  moment  she  was  hidden,  however,  he  also  climbed  the 
rocks  in  time  to  see  Miss  Van  Tyne  entering  the  grove. 
With  swift  and  silent  tread  he  followed  her,  but  could  not 
at  once  discover  her  hiding-place.  At  last  passionate  sobs 
made  it  evident  that  she  was  concealed  behind  a  great  oak 
a  little  on  his  left.  Approaching  cautiously,  he  heard  her 
moan,  — 

"  Oh,  this  is  worse  than  death  !  He  makes  me  feel  as  if 
even  God  had  no  mercy  for  me.  But  I  will  expiate  my 
wrong;  I  will,  at  the  bitterest  sacrifice  which  a  woman 
can  make." 

She  sprang  up  to  meet  Ackland  standing  with  folded 
arms  before  her.  She  started  violently  and  leaned  against 
the  tree  for  support.  But  the  weakness  was  momentary, 
for  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  then  turned  to 
him  so  quietly  that  only  her  extreme  pallor  proved  that  she 
realized  the  import  of  her  words. 

"  Mr.  Ackland,"  she  asked,  "  have  you  Mr.  Munson's 
address  ?  " 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  start,  but  he  merely  answered, 
"Yes." 

"  Do  —  do  you  think  he  still  cares  for  me  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"  Since  then  you  are  so  near  a  friend,  will  you  write  to 
him  that  I  will  try  "  —  she  turned  away  and  would  not  look 


228          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

at  him  as,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  concluded  her 
sentence, — "  I  will  try  to  make  him  as  happy  as  I  can." 

"Do  you  regret  your  course?"  he  asked  with  a  slight 
tremor  in  his  voice. 

"  I  regret  that  I  misled  —  that  I  wronged  him  beyond 
all  words.  I  am  willing  to  make  all  the  amends  in  my 
power." 

"  Do  you  love  him?  " 

She  now  turned  wholly  away  and  shook  her  head. 

"And  yet  you  would  marry  him?  " 

"  Yes,  if  he  wished  it,  knowing  all  the  truth." 

"Can  you  believe  he  would  wish  it?"  he  asked  in 
dignantly.  "  Can  you  believe  that  any  man  — 

"  Then  avenge  him  to  your  cruel  soul's  content,"  she  ex 
claimed  passionately.  "  Tell  him  that  I  have  no  heart  to 
give  to  him  or  to  any  one.  Through'  no  effort  or  fault  of  mine 
I  overheard  Mrs.  Alston's  words  and  yours.  I  know  your 
design  against  me.  Assuage  your  friend's  grief  by  assuring 
him  of  your  entire  success,  of  which  you  are  already  so  well 
aware.  Tell  him  how  you  triumphed  over  an  untaught, 
thoughtless  girl  who  was  impelled  merely  by  the  love  of  power 
and  excitement,  as  you  are  governed  by  ambition  and  a  re 
morseless  will.  I  did  not  know  —  I  did  not  understand  how 
cruel  I  was,  although  now  that  I  do  know  I  shall  never  for 
give  myself.  But  if  you  had  the  heart  of  a  man  you  might 
have  seen  that  you  were  subjecting  me  to  torture.  I  did 
not  ask  or  expect  that  you  should  care  for  me ;  but  I  had  a 
right  to  hope  for  a  little  kindness,  a  little  manly  and  delicate 
consideration,  a  little  healing  sympathy  for  the  almost  mortal 
wound  that  you  have  made.  But  I  now  see  that  you  have 
stood  by  and  watched  like  a  grand  inquisitor.  Tell  your 
friend  that  you  have  transformed  the  thoughtless  girl  into 
a  suffering  woman.  I  cannot  go  to  Brazil.  I  cannot  face 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  22Q 

dangers  that  might  bring  rest.     I  must  keep  my  place  in 
society,  —  keep  it  too  under  a  hundred  observant  and  curi 
ous  eyes.     You  have  seen  it  all  of  late  in  this  house  ;  I  was 
too  wretched  to  care.     It  was  a  part  of  my  punishment, 
and  I  accepted  it.    I  would  not  be  false  again  even  in  try 
ing  to  conceal  a  secret  which  it  is  like  death  to  a  woman 
to  reveal.     I  only  craved  one  word  of  kindness  from  you. 
Had  I  received  it,  I  would  have  gone  away  in  silence  and 
suffered  in  silence.     But  your  course  and  what  I  have  heard 
have  made  me  reckless  and  despairing.     You  do  not  leave 
me    even    the  poor  consolation  of  self-sacrifice.     You  are 
my  stony-hearted  fate.     I  wish  you  had  left  me  to  drown. 
Tell  your  friend  that  I  am  more  wretched  than  he  ever  can 
be,  because  I  am  a  woman.     Will  he  be  satisfied?" 
"  He  ought  to  be,"  was  the  low,  husky  reply. 
"  Are  you  proud  of  your  triumph?  " 
"  No,  I  am  heartily  ashamed  of  it ;  but  I   have  kept  a 
pledge  that  will    probably  cost   me  far  more  than  it  has 
you." 

"A  pledge?." 

"  Yes,  my  pledge  to  make   you  suffer  as  far  as  possible 
as  he  suffered." 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  side  as  if  she  had  received  a 
wound,  and  after  a  moment  said  wearily  and  coldly,— 

"  Well,  tell  him  that  you  succeeded,  and  be  content ;  " 
and  she  turned  to  leave  him. 

"  Stay,"  he    cried   impetuously.     "  It  is  now  your  turn. 
Take  your  revenge." 

"My  revenge?"  she  repeated  in  unfeigned  astonishment. 
"  Yes,  your  revenge.     I    have  loved   you  from  the  mo 
ment  I  hoped  you  had  a  woman's  heart,  yes,  and  before,  — 
when  I  feared   I  might  not  be  able  to  save   your   life.     I 
know  it  now,  though  the  very  thought  of  it  enraged  me 


230          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

then.  I  have  watched  and  waited  more  to  be  sure  that  you 
had  a  woman's  heart  than  for  aught  else,  though  a  false 
sense  of  honor  kept  me  true  to  my  pledge.  After  I  met 
you  on  the  beach  I  determined  at  once  to  break  my  odious 
bond  and  place  myself  at  your  mercy.  You  may  refuse  me 
in  view  of  my  course  —  you  probably  will ;  but  every  one 
in  that  house  there  shall  know  that  you  refused  me,  and 
your  triumph  shall  be  more  complete  than  mine." 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  an  expression  of  amaze 
ment  and  doubt ;  but  instead  of  coldness,  there  was  now  a 
devotion  and  pleading  that  she  had  never  seen  before. 

She  was  too  confused  and  astounded,  however,  to  com 
prehend  his  words  immediately,  nor  could  the  impression 
of  his  hostility  pass  away  readily. 

"You  are  mocking  me,"  she  faltered,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  said. 

"  I  cannot  blame  you  that  you  think  me  capable  of 
mocking  the  noble  candor  which  has  cost  you  so  dear,  as  I 
can  now  understand.  I  cannot  ask  you  to  believe  that  I 
appreciate  your  heroic  impulse  of  self-sacrifice,  —  your  pur 
pose  to  atone  for  wrong  by  inflicting  irreparable  wrong  on 
yourself.  It  is  natural  that  you  should  think  of  me  only  as 
an  instrument  of  revenge  with  no  more  feeling  than  some 
keen-edged  weapon  would  have.  This  also  is  the  inevitable 
penalty  of  my  course.  When  I  speak  of  my  love  I  cannot 
complain  if  you  smile  in  bitter  incredulity.  But  I  have  at 
least  proved  that  I  have  a  resolute  will  and  that  I  keep  my 
word ;  and  I  again  assure  you  that  it  shall  be  known  this 
very  night  that  you  have  refused  me,  that  I  offered  you  my 
hand,  that  you  already  had  my  heart,  where  your  image  is 
enshrined  with  that  of  my  mother,  and  that  I  entreated  you 
to  be  my  wife.  My  cousin  alone  guessed  my  miserable 
triumph ;  all  shall  know  of  yours." 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RESULT.  231 

As  he  spoke  with  impassioned  earnestness,  the  confusion 
passed  from  her  mind.  She  felt  the  truth  of  his  words ;  she 
knew  that  her  ambitious  dream  had  been  fulfilled,  and  that 
she  had  achieved  the  conquest  of  a  man  upon  whom  all 
others  had  smiled  in  vain.  But  how  immeasurably  different 
were  her  emotions  from  those  which  she  had  once  antici 
pated  !  Not  her  beauty,  not  her  consummate  skill  in  fasci 
nation  had  wrought  this  miracle,  but  her  woman's  heart, 
awakened  at  last ;  and  it  thrilled  with  such  unspeakable  joy 
that  she  turned  away  to  hide  its  reflex  in  her  face.  He  was 
misled  by  the  act  into  believing  that  she  could  not  forgive 
him,  and  yet  was  perplexed  when  she  murmured  with  a 
return  of  her  old  piquant  humor,  — 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Ackland  ;  it  shall  never  be  known 
that  I  refused  you." 

"  How  can  you  prevent  it?  " 

"  If  your  words  are  sincere,  you  will  submit  to  such  terms 
as  I  choose  to  make." 

"  I  am  sincere,  and  my  actions  shall  prove  it ;  but  I  shall 
permit  no  mistaken  self-sacrifice  on  your  part,  nor  any  at 
tempt  to  shield  me  from  the  punishment  I  well  deserve." 

She  suddenly  turned  upon  him  a  radiant  face  in  which  he 
read  his  happiness,  and  faltered,  — 

"  Jack,  I  do  believe  you,  although  the  change  seems 
wrought  by  some  heavenly  magic.  But  it  will  take  a  long 
time  to  pay  you  up.  I  hope  to  be  your  dear  torment  for 
a  lifetime." 

He  caught  her  in  such  a  strong,  impetuous  embrace  that 
she  gasped,  — 

"  I  thought  you  were  —  cold  to  our  sex." 

"  It 's  not  your  sex  that  I  am  clasping,  but  you  — you, 
my  Eve.  Like  the  first  man,  I  have  won  my  bride  under 
the  green  trees  and  beneath  the  open  sky." 


232         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Yes,  Jack ;  and  I  give  you  my  whole  heart  as  truly  as 
did  the  first  woman  when  there  was  but  one  man  in  all  the 
world.  That  is  my  revenge." 

This  is  what  Will  Munson  wrote  some  weeks  later,  — 

"  Well,  Jack,  I  Ve  had  the  yellow  fever,  and  it  was  the  most 
fortunate  event  of  my  life.  I  was  staying  with  a  charming 
family,  and  they  would  not  permit  my  removal  to  a  hospital. 
One  of  my  bravest  and  most  devoted  nurses  has  consented  to 
become  my  wife.  I  hope  you  punished  that  little  wretch  Eva 
Van  Tyne  as  she  deserved." 

"  Confound  your  fickle  soul !  "  muttered  Ackland.  "  I 
punished  her  as  she  did  not  deserve ;  and  I  risked  more 
than  life  in  doing  so.  If  her  heart  had  not  been  as  good 
as  gold  and  as  kind  as  Heaven  she  never  would  have  looked 
at  me  again." 

Ackland  is  quite  as  indifferent  to  the  sex  as  ever,  but  Eva 
has  never  complained  that  he  was  cold  to  her. 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE   SUIT. 


E  Christmas  holidays  had  come,  and  with  them  a 
welcome  vacation  for  Hedley  Marstern.  Although  as 
yet  a  briefless  young  lawyer,  he  had  a  case  in  hand  which 
absorbed  many  of  his  thoughts,  —  the  conflicting  claims  of 
two  young  women  in  his  native  village  on  the  Hudson.  It 
must  not  be  imagined  that  the  young  women  were  pressing 
their  claims  except  as  they  did  so  unconsciously,  by  virtue 
of  their  sex  and  various  charms.  Nevertheless,  Marstern 
was  not  the  first  lawyer  who  had  clients  over  whom  mid 
night  oil  was  burned,  they  remaining  unaware  of  the  fact. 
If  not  yet  a  constitutional  attorney,  he  was  at  least  con 
stitutionally  one.  Falling  helplessly  in  love  with  one  girl 
simplifies  matters.  There  are  no  distracting  pros  and  cons, 
—  nothing  required  but  a  concentration  of  faculties  to  win 
the  enslaver,  and  so  achieve  mastery.  Marstern  did  not  ap 
pear  amenable  to  the  subtle  influences  which  blind  the  eyes 
and  dethrone  reason,  inspiring  in  its  place  an  overwhelm 
ing  impulse  to  capture  a  fortuitous  girl  because  (to  a  heated 
imagination)  she  surpasses  all  her  sex.  Indeed,  he  was  level 
headed  enough  to  believe  that  he  would  never  capture  any 
such  girl ;  but  he  hoped  to  secure  one  who  promised  to 
make  as  good  a  wife  as  he  would  try  to  be  a  husband,  and 
with  a  fair  amount  of  self-esteem,  he  was  conscious  of  im 
perfections.  Therefore,  instead  of  fancying  that  any  of  his 


234         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

fair  acquaintances  were  angels,  he  had  deliberately  and,  as 
some  may  think,  in  a  very  cold-blooded  fashion,  endeavored 
to  discover  what  they  actually  were.  He  had  observed 
that  a  good  deal  of  prose  followed  the  poetry  of  wooing 
and  the  lunacy  of  the  honeymoon ;  and  he  thought  it 
might  be  well  to  criticise  a  little  before  marriage  as  well  as 
after  it. 

There  were  a  number  of  charming  girls  in  the  social 
circle  of  his  native  town ;  and  he  had,  during  later  years, 
made  himself  quite  impartially  agreeable  to  them.  Indeed, 
without  much  effort  on  his  part  he  had  become  what  is 
known  as  a  general  favorite.  He  had  been  too  diligent  a 
student  to  become  a  society  man,  but  was  ready  enough  in 
vacation  periods  to  make  the  most  of  every  country  frolic, 
and  even  on  great  occasions  to  rush  up  from  the  city  and 
return  at  some  unearthly  hour  in  the  morning  when  his 
partners  in  the  dance  were  not  half  through  their  dreams. 
While  on  these  occasions  he  had  shared  in  the  prevailing 
hilarity,  he  nevertheless  had  the  presentiment  that  some  one 
of  the  laughing,  light-footed  girls  would  one  day  pour  his 
coffee  and  send  him  to  his  office  in  either  a  good  or  a  bad 
mood  to  grapple  with  the  problems  awaiting  him  there. 
He  had  in  a  measure  decided  that  when  he  married  it 
should  be  to  a  girl  whom  he  had  played  with  in  childhood 
and  whom  he  knew  a  good  deal  about,  and  not  to  a  chance 
acquaintance  of  the  world  at  large.  So,  beneath  all  his  di 
versified  gallantries  he  had  maintained  a  quiet  little  policy 
of  observation,  until  his  thoughts  had  gradually  gathered 
around  two  of  his  young  associates  who,  unconsciously  to 
themselves,  as  we  have  said,  put  in  stronger  and  stronger 
claims  every  time  he  saw  them.  They  asserted  these  claims 
in  the  only  way  in  which  he  would  have  recognized  them,  — 
by  being  more  charming,  agreeable,  and,  as  he  fancied, 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT.  235 

by  being  better  than  the  others.  He  had  not  made  them 
aware,  even  by  manner,  of  the  distinction  accorded  to  them  ; 
and  as  yet  he  was  merely  a  friend. 

But  the  time  had  come,  he  believed,  for  definite  action. 
While  he  weighed  and  considered,  some  prompter  fellows 
might  take  the  case  out  of  his  hands  entirely ;  therefore 
he  welcomed  this  vacation  and  the  opportunities  it  afforded. 

The  festivities  began  with  what  is  termed  in  the  country 
a  "large  party;"  and  Carrie  Mitchell  and  Lottie  Waldo 
were  both  there,  resplendent  in  new  gowns  made  for  the 
occasion.  Marstern  thought  them  both  charming.  They 
danced  equally  well  and  talked  nonsense  with  much  the 
same  ease  and  vivacity.  He  could  not  decide  which  was 
the  prettier,  nor  did  the  eyes  and  attentions  of  others  afford 
him  any  aid.  They  were  general  favorites,  as  well  as  him 
self,  although  it  was  evident  that  to  some  they  might  be 
come  more,  should  they  give  encouragement.  But  they 
were  apparently  in  the  heyday  of  their  girlhood,  and  thus 
far  had  preferred  miscellaneous  admiration  to  individual 
devotion.  By  the  time  the  evening  was  over  Marstern  felt 
that  if  life  consisted  of  large  parties  he  might  as  well  settle 
the  question  by  the  toss  of  a  copper. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  he  was  such  a  conceited 
prig  as  to  imagine  that  such  a  fortuitous  proceeding,  or  his 
best  efforts  afterward,  could  settle  the  question  as  it  related 
to  the  girls.  It  would  only  decide  his  own  procedure.  He 
was  like  an  old  marauding  baron,  in  honest  doubt  from 
which  town  he  can  carry  off  the  richest  booty,  —  that  is,  in 
case  he  can  capture  any  one  of  them.  His  overtures  for 
capitulation  might  be  met  with  the  "  slings  and  arrows  of 
outrageous  fortune  "  and  he  be  sent  limping  off  the  field. 
Nevertheless,  no  man  regrets  that  he  must  take  the  initia 
tive,  and  he  would  be  less  than  a  man  who  would  fear  to  do 


236          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

so.  When  it  came  to  this  point  in  the  affair,  Marstern 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  thought,  "  I  must  take  my 
chances  like  the  rest."  But  he  wished  to  be  sure  that  he 
had  attained  this  point,  and  not  lay  siege  to  one  girl  only 
to  wish  afterward  it  had  been  the  other. 

His  course  that  evening  proved  that  he  not  only  had  a 
legal  cast  of  mind  but  also  a  judicial  one.  He  invited  both 
Miss  Mitchell  and  Miss  Waldo  to  take  a  sleigh-ride  with 
him  the  following  evening,  fancying  that  when  sandwiched 
between  them  in  the  cutter  he  could  impartially  note  his 
impressions.  His  unsuspecting  clients  laughingly  accepted, 
utterly  unaware  of  the  momentous  character  of  the  trial 
scene  before  them. 

As  Marstern  smoked  a  cigar  before  retiring  that  night,  he 
admitted  to  himself  that  it  was  rather  a  remarkable  court 
that  was  about  to  be  held.  He  was  the  only  advocate 
for  the  claims  of  each,  and  finally  he  proposed  to  take 
a  seat  on  the  bench  and  judge  between  them.  Indeed, 
before  he  slept  he  decided  to  take  that  august  position  at 
once,  and  maintain  a  judicial  impartiality  while  noting  his 
impressions. 

Christmas  Eve  happened  to  be  a  cold,  clear,  star-lit  night ; 
and  when  Marstern  drove  to  Miss  Waldo's  door,  he  asked 
himself,  "  Could  a  fellow  ask  for  anything  daintier  and 
finer  "  than  the  red-lipped,  dark-eyed  girl  revealed  by  the 
hall-lamp  as  she  tripped  lightly  out,  her  anxious  mamma 
following  her  with  words  of  unheeded  caution  about  not 
taking  cold,  and  coming  home  early.  He  had  not  traversed 
the  mile  which  intervened  between  the  residences  of  the 
two  girls  before  he  almost  wished  he  could  continue  the 
drive  under  the  present,  auspices,  and  that,  as  in  the  old  times, 
he  could  take  toll  at  every  bridge,  and  encircle  his  com 
panion  with  his  arm  as  they  bounced  over  the  "  thank-'ee. 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT.  237 

mams."  The  frosty  air  appeared  to  give  keenness  and 
piquancy  to  'Miss  Lottie's  wit,  and  the  chime  of  the  bells 
was  not  merrier  or  more  musical  than  her  voice.  But  when 
a  little  later  he  saw  blue- eyed  Carrie  Mitchell  in  her  furs 
and  hood  silhouetted  in  the  window,  his  old  dilemma  became 
as  perplexing  as  ever.  Nevertheless,  it  was  the  most  de 
lightful  uncertainty  that  he  had  ever  experienced ;  and  he 
had  a  presentiment  that  he  had  better  make  the  most  of  it, 
since  it  could  not  last  much  longer.  Meanwhile,  he  was 
hedged  about  with  blessings  clearly  not  in  disguise,  and  he 
gave  utterance  to  this  truth  as  they  drove  away. 

"  Surely  there  never  was  so  lucky  a  fellow.  Here  I  am 
kept  warm  and  happy  by  the  two  finest  girls  in  town." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lottie ;  "  and  it 's  a  shame  you  can't  sit  on 
both  sides  of  us." 

"  I  assure  you  I  wish  it  were  possible.  It  would  double 
my  pleasure." 

"  I  'm  very  well  content,"  remarked  Carrie,  quietly,  "  as 
long  as  I  can  keep  on  the  right  side  of  people — " 

"  Well,  you  are  not  on  the  right  side  to-night,"  inter 
rupted  Lottie. 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  thought  Marstern,  "  she  's  next  to  my 
heart.  I  wonder  if  that  will  give  her  unfair  advantage;" 
but  Carrie  explained,  — 

"  Of  course  I  was  speaking  metaphorically." 

"  In  that  aspect  of  the  case  it  would  be  a  shame  to  me 
if  any  side  I  have  is  not  right  toward  those  who  have  so 
honored  me,"  he  hastened  to  say. 

"  Oh,  Carrie  has  all  the  advantage,  —  she  is  next  to  your 
heart." 

"Would  you  like  to  exchange  places?  "was  the  query 
flashed  back  by  Carrie. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  'm  quite  as  content  as  you  are." 


238         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Why,  then,  since  I  am  more  than  content,  —  exultant, 
indeed,  —  it  appears  that  we  all  start  from  excellent  prem 
ises  to  reach  a  happy  conclusion  of  our  Christmas  Eve," 
cried  Marstern. 

"  Now  you  are  talking  shop,  Mr.  Lawyer,  —  Premises  and 
Conclusions,  indeed  !  "  said  Lottie ;  "  since  you  are  such  a 
happy  sandwich,  you  must  be  a  tongue  sandwich,  and  be 
very  entertaining." 

He  did  his  best,  the  two  girls  seconding  his  efforts  so 
genially  that  he  found  himself,  after  driving  five  miles,  psy 
chologically  just  where  he  was  physically,  —  between  them, 
as  near  to  one  in  his  thoughts  and  preferences  as  to  the 
other. 

"  Let  us  take  the  river  road  home,"  suggested  Lottie. 

"As  long  as  you  agree,"  he  answered,  "you  both  are  sov 
ereign  potentates.  If  you  should  express  conflicting  wishes, 
I  should  have  to  stop  here  in  the  road  till  one  abdicated  in 
favor  of  the  other,  or  we  all  froze." 

"  But  you,  sitting  so  snugly  between  us,  would  not  freeze," 
said  Lottie.  "  If  we  were  obstinate  we  should  have  to  assume 
our  pleasantest  expressions  and  then  you  could  eventually 
take  us  home  as  bits  of  sculpture.  In  fact,  I  'm  getting 
cold  already." 

"  Are  you  also,  Miss  Carrie?  " 

"  Oh,  I  '11  thaw  out  before  summer.     Don't  mind  me." 

"  Well,  then,  mind  me,"  resumed  Lottie.  "  See  how 
white  and  smooth  the  river  looks.  Why  can't  we  drive 
home  on  the  ice  ?  It  will  save  miles,  —  I  mean  it  looks 
so  inviting." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  cried  Carrie,  "  I  feel  like  protesting  now. 
The  longest  way  round  may  be  both  the  shortest  and  safest 
way  home." 

"You  ladies  shall  decide.     This  morning  I  drove  over 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT. 

the  route  we  would  take  to-night,  and  I  should  not  fear  to 
take  a  ton  of  coal  over  it." 

"  A  comparison  suggesting  warmth  and  a  grate- fire.  I 
vote  for  the  river,"  said  Lottie,  promptly. 

"  Oh,  well,  Mr.  Marstern,  if  you  Ve  been  over  the  ice  so 
recently — I  only  wish  to  feel  reasonably  safe." 

"  I  declare  !  "  thought  Marstem,  "  Lottie  is  the  braver 
and  more  brilliant  girl ;  and  the  fact  that  she  is  not  inclined 
to  forego  the  comfort  of  the  home-fire  for  the  pleasure 
of  my  company,  reveals  the  difficulty  of,  and  therefore  in 
centive  to,  the  suit  I  may  decide  to  enter  upon  before  New 
Year's." 

Meanwhile,  his  heart  on  Carrie's  side  began  to  grow 
warm  and  alert,  as  if  recognizing  an  affinity  to  some  object 
not  far  off.  Granting  that  she  had  not  been  so  brilliant  as 
Lottie,  she  had  been  eminently  companionable  in  a  more 
quiet  way.  If  there  had  not  been  such  bursts  of  enthusi 
asm  at  the  beginning  of  the  drive,  her  enjoyment  appeared 
to  have  more  staying  powers.  He  liked  her  none  the  less 
that  her  eyes  were  often  turned  toward  the  stars  or  the 
dark  silhouettes  of  the  leafless  trees  against  the  snow.  -  She 
did  not  keep  saying,  "  Ah,  how  lovely  !  What  a  fine  bit 
that  is  !  "  but  he  had  only  to  follow  her  eyes  to  see  some 
thing  worth  looking  at. 

"  A  proof  that  Miss  Carrie  also  is  not  so  preoccupied 
with  the  pleasure  of  my  company  that  she  has  no  thoughts 
for  other  things,"  cogitated  Marstern.  "It's  rather  in  her 
favor  that  she  prefers  Nature  to  a  grate-fire.  They  're 
about  even  yet." 

Meanwhile  the  horse  was  speeding  along  on  the  white, 
hard  expanse  of  the  river,  skirting  the  west  shore.  They 
now  had  only  about  a  mile  to  drive  before  striking  land 
again ;  and  the  scene  was  so  beautiful  with  the  great  dim 


240         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

outlines  of  the  mountains  before  them  that  both  the  girls 
suggested  that  they  should  go  leisurely  for  a  time. 

"  We  should  n't  hastily  and  carelessly  pass  such  a  picture 
as  that,  any  more  than  one  would  if  a  fine  copy  of  it  were 
hung  in  a  gallery,"  said  Carrie.  "  The  stars  are  so  brilliant 
along  the  brow  of  that  highland  yonder  that  they  form  a 
dia  —  oh,  oh  !  what  is  the  matter?  "  and  she  clung  to  Mar- 
stern's  arm. 

The  horse  was  breaking  through  the  ice. 

"  Whoa  !  "  said  Marstern,  firmly.  Even  as  he  spoke, 
Lottie  was  out  of  the  sleigh  and  running  back  on  the  ice, 
crying  and  wringing  her  hands. 

"We  shall  be  drowned,"  she  almost  screamed  hysterically. 

"  Mr.  Marstern,  what  shall  we  do  ?  Can't  we  turn  around 
and  go  back  the  way  we  came?" 

"  Miss  Carrie,  will  you  do  what  I  ask  ?  Will  you  believe 
me  when  I  say  that  I  do  not  think  you  are  in  any  danger?  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  do  my  best,"  she  replied,  catching  her  breath. 
She  grew  calm  rapidly  as  he  tried  to  reassure  Lottie,  telling 
her  that  water  from  the  rising  of  the  tide  had  overflowed 
the  main  ice  and  that  thin  ice  had  formed  over  it,  also  that 
the  river  at  the  most  was  only  two  or  three  feet  deep  at 
that  point.  But  all  was  of  no  avail ;  Lottie  stood  out  upon 
the  ice  in  a  panic,  declaring  that  he  never  should  have 
brought  them  into  such  danger,  and  that  he  must  turn 
around  at  once  and  go  back  as  they  came. 

"  But,  Miss  Waldo,  the  tide  is  rising,  and  we  may  find  wet 
places  returning.  Besides,  it  would  bring  us  home  very  late. 
Now,  Miss  Carrie  and  I  will  drive  slowly  across  this  place 
and  then  return  for  you.  After  we  have  been  across  it 
twice  you  surely  won't  fear." 

"  I  won't  be  left  alone ;  suppose  you  two  should  break 
through  and  disappear,  what  would  become  of  me  ?  " 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT.  241 

"  You  would  be  better  off  than  we,"  he  replied,  laughing. 

"  I  think  it 's  horrid  of  you  to  laugh.  Oh,  I  'm  so  cold 
and  frightened  !  I  feel  as  if  the  ice  were  giving  way  under 
my  feet." 

"  Why,  Miss  Lottie,  we  just  drove  over  that  spot  where 
you  stand.  Here,  Miss  Carrie  shall  stay  with  you  while  I 
drive  back  and  forth  alone." 

"  Then  if  you  were  drowned  we  'd  both  be  left  alone  to 
freeze  to  death." 

"  I  pledge  you  my  word  you  shall  be  by  that  grate-fire 
within  less  than  an  hour  if  you  will  trust  me  five  minutes." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  will  risk  your  life  and  ours  too ;  but 
Carrie  must  stay  with  me." 

"  Will  you  trust  me,  Miss  Carrie,  and  help  me  out  of  this 
scrape?" 

Carrie  was  recovering  from  her  panic,  and  replied,  "  I 
have  given  you  my  promise." 

He  was  out  of  the  sleigh  instantly,  and  the  thin  ice  broke 
with  him  also.  "  I  must  carry  you  a  short  distance,"  he  said. 
"  I  cannot  allow  you  to  get  your  feet  wet.  Put  one  arm 
around  my  neck,  so ;  now  please  obey  as  you  promised." 

She  did  so  without  a  word,  and  he  bore  her  beyond  the 
water,  inwardly  exulting  and  blessing  that  thin  ice.  His 
decision  was  coming  with  the  passing  seconds ;  indeed,  it 
had  come.  Returning  to  the  sleigh  he  drove  slowly  for 
ward,  his  horse  making  a  terrible  crunching  and  splashing, 
Lottie  meanwhile  keeping  up  a  staccato  accompaniment  of 
little  shrieks. 

"  Ah,  my  charming  creature,"  he  thought,  "  with  you  it  was 
only,  '  What  will  become  of  me  ?  '  I  might  not  have  found 
out  until  it  was  too  late  the  relative  importance  of  '  me  ' 
in  the  universe  had  we  not  struck  this  bad  crossing;  and 
one  comes  to  plenty  of  bad  places  to  cross  in  a  lifetime." 

16 


242         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

The  area  of  thin  ice  was  not  very  narrow,  and  he  was 
becoming  but  a  dim  and  shadowy  outline  to  the  girls.  Lot 
tie  was  now  screaming  for  his  return.  Having  crossed  the 
overflowed  space  and  absolutely  assured  himself  that  there 
was  no  danger,  he  returned  more  rapidly  and  found  Carrie 
trying  to  calm  her  companion. 

"  Oh,"  sobbed  Lottie,  "  my  feet  are  wet  and  almost 
frozen.  The  ice  underneath  may  have  borne  you,  but  it 
won't  bear  all  three  of  us.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  had  n't  —  I 
wish  I  was  home ;  and  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  never  get  there." 

"  Miss  Lottie,  I  assure  you  that  the  ice  will  hold  a  ton, 
but  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do.  I  shall  put  you  in  the  sleigh, 
and  Miss  Carrie  will  drive  you  over.  You  two  together  do 
not  weigh  much  more  than  I  do.  I  '11  walk  just  behind  you 
with  my  hands  on  the  back  of  the  sleigh,  and  if  I  see  the 
slightest  danger  I  '11  lift  you  out  of  the  sleigh  first  and  carry 
you  to  safety." 

This  proposition  promised  so  well  that  she  hesitated,  and 
he  lifted  her  in  instantly  before  she  could  change  her  mind, 
then  helped  Carrie  in  with  a  quiet  pressure  of  the  hand,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  I  shall  depend  on  you." 

"  But,  Mr.  Marstern,  you  '11  get  your  feet  wet,"  protested 
Carrie. 

"  That  doesn't  matter,"  he  replied  good-naturedly.  "I 
shall  be  no  worse  off  than  Miss  Lottie,  and  I  'in  deter 
mined  to  convince  her  of  safety.  Now  go  straight  ahead 
as  I  direct." 

Once  the  horse  stumbled,  and  Lottie  thought  he  was 
going  down  headfirst.  "  Oh,  lift  me  out,  quick,  quick  !  " 
she  cried. 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  will,  Miss  Lottie,  as  soon  as  we  are  oppo 
site  that  grate-fire  of  yours." 

They  were  soon  safely  over  and  within  a  half-hour  reached 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT.  243 

Lottie's  home.  It  was  evident  she  was  a  little  ashamed  of 
her  behavior,  and  she  made  some  effort  to  retrieve  herself. 
But  she  was  cold  and  miserable,  vexed  with  herself  and  still 
more  vexed  with  Marstern.  That  a  latent  sense  of  justice 
forbade  the  latter  feeling  only  irritated  her  the  more.  In 
dividuals  as  well  as  communities  must  have  scapegoats ; 
and  it  is  not  an  unusual  impulse  on  the  part  of  some  to 
blame  and  dislike  those  before  whom  they  have  .humiliated 
themselves. 

She  gave  her  companions  a  rather  formal  invitation  to 
come  in  and  get  warm  before  proceeding  farther;  but 
Marstern  said  very  politely  that  he  thought  it  was  too 
late,  unless  Miss  Carrie  was  cold.  Carrie  protested  that 
she  was  not  so  cold  but  that  she  could  easily  wait  till  she 
reached  her  own  fireside. 

"  Well,  good-night,  then,"  and  the  door  was  shut  a  trifle 
emphatically. 

"Mr.  Marstern,"  said  Carrie,  sympathetically,  "your  feet 
must  be  very  cold  and  wet  after  splashing  through  all  that 
ice-water." 

"They  are,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  I  don't  mind  it.  Well,  if 
I  had  tried  for  years  I  could  not  have  found  such  a  test  of 
character  as  we  had  to-night." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  you  two  girls  did  not  behave  exactly  alike. 
I  liked  the  way  you  behaved.  You  helped  me  out  of  a 
confounded  scrape." 

"Would  you  have  tried  for  years  to  find  a  test?"  she 
asked,  concealing  the  keenness  of  her  query  under  a 
laugh. 

"  I  should  have  been  well  rewarded  if  I  had,  by  such  a 
fine  contrast,"  he  replied. 

Carrie's  faculties  had  not  so  congealed  but  that  his  words 


244         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

set  her  thinking.  She  had  entertained  at  times  the  impres 
sion  that  she  and  Lottie  were  his  favorites.  Had  he  taken 
them  out  that  night  together  in  the  hope  of  contrasts,  of 
finding  tests  that  would  help  his  halting  decision?  He  had 
ventured  where  the  intuitions  of  a  girl  like  Carrie  Mitchell 
were  almost  equal  to  second-sight ;  and  she  was  alert  for  what 
would  come  next. 

He  accepted  her  invitation  to  come  in  and  warm  his 
feet  at  the  glowing  fire  in  the  grate,  which  Carrie's  father 
had  made  before  retiring.  Mrs.  Mitchell,  feeling  that  her 
daughter  was  with  an  old  friend  and  playmate,  did  not 
think  the  presence  of  a  chaperone  essential,  and  left  the 
young  people  alone.  Carrie  bustled  about,  brought  cake, 
and  made  hot  lemonade,  while  Marstern  stretched  his  feet 
to  the  grate  with  a  luxurious  sense  of  comfort  and  com 
placency,  thinking  how  homelike  it  all  was  and  how  para 
disiacal  life  would  become  if  such  a  charming  little  Hebe 
presided  over  his  home.  His  lemonade  became  nectar 
offered  by  such  hands. 

She  saw  the  different  expression  in  his  eyes.  It  was  now 
homage,  decided  preference  for  one  and  not  mere  gallantry 
to  two.  Outwardly  she  was  demurely  oblivious  and  main 
tained  simply  her  wonted  friendliness.  Marstern,  however, 
was  thawing  in  more  senses  than  one,  and  he  was  possessed 
by  a  strong  impulse  to  begin  an  open  siege  at  once. 

"  I  have  n't  had  a  single  suit  of  any  kind  yet,  Carrie,"  he 
said,  dropping  the  prefix  of  "  Miss,"  which  had  gradually 
been  adopted  as  they  had  grown  up. 

"  Oh,  well,  that  was  the  position  of  all  the  great  lawyers 
once,"  she  replied,  laughing.  Marstern's  father  was  wealthy, 
and  all  knew  that  he  could  afford  to  be  briefless  for  a 
time. 

"  I  may  never  be  great ;  but  I  shall  work  as  hard  as  any 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT.  24$ 

of  them,"  he  continued.  "To  tell  you  the  honest  truth, 
however,  this  would  be  the  happiest  Christmas  Eve  of  my 
life  if  I  had  a  downright  suit  on  my  hands.  Why  can't  I 
be  frank  with  you  and  say  I  'd  like  to  begin  the  chief  suit 
of  my  life  now  and  here,  —  a  suit  for  this  little  hand  ?  I  'd 
plead  for  it  as  no  lawyer  ever  pleaded  before.  I  settled 
that  much  down  on  the  ice." 

"  And  if  I  had  n't  happened  to  behave  on  the  ice  in  a 
manner  agreeable  to  your  lordship,  you  would  have  pleaded 
with  the  other  girl  ?  "  she  remarked,  withdrawing  her  hand 
and  looking  him  directly  in  the  eyes. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  he  asked  somewhat 
confusedly. 

"You  do." 

He  sprang  up  and  paced  the  room  a  few  moments,  then 
confronted  her  with  the  words,  "  You  shall  have  the  whole 
truth.  Any  woman  that  I  would  ask.  to  be  my  wife  is  en 
titled  to  that,"  and  he  told  her  just  what  the  attitude  of  his 
mind  had  been  from  the  first. 

She  laughed  outright,  then  gave  him  her  hand  as  she 
said,  "  Your  honesty  insures  that  we  can  be  very  good 
friends ;  but  I  don't  wish  to  hear  anything  more  about 
suits  which  are  close  of  kin  to  lawsuits." 

He  looked  very  dejected,  feeling  that  he  had  blundered 
fatally  in  his  precipitation. 

"  Come  now,  Hedley,  be  sensible,"  she  resumed,  half 
laughing,  half  serious.  "  As  you  say,  we  can  be  frank  with 
each  other.  Why,  only  the  other  day  we  were  boy  and 
girl  together  coasting  down  hill  on  the  same  sled.  You  are 
applying  your  legal  jargon  to  a  deep  experience,  to  some 
thing  sacred,  —  the  result,  to  my  mind,  of  a  divine  instinct. 
Neither  you  nor  I  have  ever  felt  for  each  other  this  instinc 
tive  preference,  this  subtle  gravitation  of  the  heart.  Don't 


246         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

you  see?  Your  head  has  been  concerned  about  me,  and 
only  your  head.  By  a  kindred  process  you  would  select 
one  bale  of  merchandise  in  preference  to  another.  Good 
gracious  !  I  've  faults  enough.  You  '11  meet  some  other  girl 
that  will  stand  some  other  test  far  better  than  I.  I  want 
a  little  of  what  you  call  silly  romance  in  my  courtship. 
See ;  I  can  talk  about  this  suit  as  coolly  and  fluently  as  you 
can.  We  'd  make  a  nice  pair  of  lovers,  about  as  frigid  as 
the  ice -water  you  waded  through  so  good-naturedly;  "  and 
the  girl's  laugh  rang  out  merrily,  awakening  echoes  in  the 
old  house.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mitchell  might  rest  securely  when 
their  daughter  could  laugh  like  that.  It  was  the  mirth  of  a 
genuine  American  girl  whose  self-protection  was  better  than 
the  care  of  a  thousand  duennas. 

He  looked  at  her  with  honest  admiration  in  his  eyes, 
then  rose  quietly  and  said,  "  That 's  fine,  Carrie.  Your 
head 's  worth  two  of  mine,  and  you  'd  make  the  better 
lawyer.  You  see  through  a  case  from  top  to  bottom.  You 
were  right,  —  I  was  n't  in  love  with  you ;  I  don't  know 
whether  I  'm  in  love  with  you  now,  and  you  have  n't  an 
infinitesimal  spark  for  me.  Nevertheless,  I  begin  my  suit 
here  and  now,  and  I  shall  never  withdraw  it  till  you  are 
engaged  to  another  fellow.  So  there  ! " 

Carrie  looked  rather  blank  at  this  result  of  her  reductio 
ad  absurdum  process ;  and  he  did  not  help  her  by  adding, 
"  A  fellow  is  n't  always  in  love.  There  must  be  a  begin 
ning  ;  and  when  I  arrive  at  this  beginning  under  the  guid 
ance  of  reason,  judgment,  and  observation,  I  don't  see  as 
I  'm  any  more  absurd  than  the  fellow  who  tumbles  help 
lessly  in  love,  he  does  n't  know  why.  What  becomes  of  all 
these  people  who  have  divine  gravitations?  You  and  I 
both  know  of  some  who  had  satanic  repulsions  afterward. 
They  used  their  eyes  and  critical  faculties  after  marriage 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT.  247 

instead  of  before.  The  romance  exhaled  like  a  morning 
mist ;  and  the  facts  came  out  distinctly.  They  learned 
what  kind  of  man  and  woman  they  actually  were,  and  two 
idealized  creatures  were  sent  to  limbo.  Because  I  don't 
blunder  upon  the  woman  I  wish  to  marry,  but  pick  her 
out,  that 's  no  reason  I  can't  and  won't  love  her.  Your 
analysis  and  judgment  were  correct  only  up  to  date. 
You  have  now  to  meet  a  suit  honestly,  openly  announced. 
This  may  be  bad  policy  on  my  part ;  yet  I  have  so  much 
faith  in  you  and  respect  for  you  that  I  don't  believe  you 
will  let  my  precipitation  create  a  prejudice.  Give  me  a 
fair  hearing;  that's  all  I  ask." 

"  Well,  well,  I  '11  promise  not  to  frown,  even  though  some 
finer  paragon  should  throw  me  completely  in  the  shade." 

"You  don't  believe  in  me  yet,"  he  resumed,  after  a 
moment  of  thought.  "  I  felt  that  I  had  blundered  awfully 
a  while  ago ;  but  I  doubt  it.  A  girl  of  your  perceptions 
would  soon  have  seen  it  all.  I  Ve  not  lost  anything 
by  being  frank  from  the  start.  Be  just  to  me,  however. 
It  wasn't  policy  that  led  me  to  speak,  but  this  home 
like  scene,  and  you  appearing  like  the  good  genius  of  a 
home." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  gave  a  low  whistle  as  he 
held  it  toward  her.  Then  his  manner  suddenly  became 
grave  and  gentle.  "  Carrie,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  you,  not  a 
merry  Christmas,  but  a  happy  one,  and  many  of  them.  It 
seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  great  privilege  for  a  man  to 
make  a  woman  like  you  happy." 

"Is  this  the  beginning  of  the  suit?"  she  asked  with  a 
laugh  that  was  a  little  forced. 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  is ;  but  I  spoke  just  as  I  felt. 
Good-night." 

She  would  not  admit  of  a  trace  of  sentiment  on  her  part. 


248          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said.  "  Merry  Christmas  !  Go  home 
^hd  hang  up  your  stocking." 

"  Bless  me  !  "  she  thought,  as  she  went  slowly  up  the 
stairs,  "  I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  through  with  him  for 
good  and  all,  except  as  a  friend ;  but  if  he  goes  on  this 
way  —  " 

The  next  morning  a  basket  of  superb  roses  was  left  at 
her  home.  There  was  no  card,  and  mamma  queried  and 
surmised ;  but  the  girl  knew.  They  were  not  displeasing 
to  her,  and  somehow,  before  the  day  was  over  they  found 
their  way  to  her  room ;  but  she  shook  her  head  decidedly 
as  she  said,  "  He  must  be  careful  not  to  send  me  other 
gifts,  for  I  will  return  them  instantly.  Flowers,  in  mod 
eration,  never  commit  a  girl." 

But  then  came  another  gift,  —  a  book  with  pencillings 
here  and  there,  not  against  sentimental  passages,  but 
words  that  made  her  think.  It  was  his  manner  in  society, 
however,  that  at  once  annoyed,  perplexed,  and  pleased  her. 
On  the  first  occasion  they  met  in  company  with  others,  he 
made  it  clear  to  every  one  that  he  was  her  suitor ;  yet  he 
was  not  a  burr  which  she  could  not  shake  off.  He  rather 
seconded  all  her  efforts  to  have  a  good  time  with  any  and 
every  one  she  chose.  Nor  did  he,  wallflower  fashion,  mope 
in  the  mean  while  and  look  unutterable  things.  He  added 
to  the  pleasure  of  a  score  of  others,  and  even  conciliated 
Lottie,  yet  at  the  same  time  surrounded  the  girl  of  his 
choice  with  an  atmosphere  of  unobtrusive  devotion.  She 
was  congratulated  on  her  conquest  —  rather  maliciously  so 
by  Lottie.  Her  air  of  courteous  indifference  was  well 
maintained ;  yet  she  was  a  woman,  and  could  not  help  be 
ing  flattered.  Certain  generous  traits  in  her  nature  were 
touched  also  by  an  homage  which  yielded  everything  and 
exacted  nothing. 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT.  249 

The  holidays  soon  passed,  and  he  returned  to  his  work. 
She  learned  incidentally  that  he  toiled  faithfully,  instead  of 
mooning  around.  At  every  coigne  of  vantage  she  found 
him,  or  some  token  of  his  ceaseless  effort.  She  was  com 
pelled  to  think  of  him,  and  to  think  well  of  him.  Though 
mamma  and  papa  judiciously  said  little,  it  was  evident  that 
they  liked  the  style  of  lover  into  which  he  was  developing. 

Once  during  the  summer  she  said,  "  I  don't  think  it 's 
right  to  let  you  go  on  in  this  way  any  longer." 

"Are  my  attentions  so  very  annoying?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  A  girl  never  had  a  more  agreeable  or 
useful  friend." 

"Are  you  engaged  to  some  other  fellow?  " 

"  Of  course  not.     You  know  better." 

"  There  is  no  •'  of  course  not '  about  it.  I  could  n't  and 
would  n't  lay  a  straw  in  the  way.  You  are  not  bound, 
but  I." 

"You  bound?" 

"  Certainly.     You  remember  what  I  said." 

"  Then  I  must  accept  the  first  man  that  asks  me  —  " 

"  I  ask  you." 

"  No ;  some  one  else,  so  as  to  unloose  your  conscience 
and  give  you  a  happy  deliverance." 

"  You  would  leave  me  still  bound  and  hopeless  in  that 
case.  I  love  you  now,  Carrie  Mitchell." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  you  are  incorrigible.  It 's  just  a  lawyer's 
persistence  in  winning  a  suit." 

"You  can  still  swear  on  the  dictionary  that  you  don't 
love  me  at  all?  " 

"  I  might  —  on  the  dictionary.  There,  I  won't  talk 
about  such  things  any  more,"  and  she  resolutely  changed 
the  subject. 

But  she  couldn't  swear,  even  on   the  dictionary.     She 


250         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

did  n't  know  where  she  stood  or  how  it  would  all  end  ; 
but  with  increasing  frequency  the  words,  "  I  love  you 
now,"  haunted  her  waking  and  dreaming  hours. 

The  holidays  were  near  again,  and  then  came  a  letter 
from  Marstern,  asking  her  to  take  another  sleigh- ride  with 
him  on  Christmas  Eve.  His  concluding  words  were, 
"  There  is  no  other  woman  in  the  world  that  I  want  on 
the  other  side  of  me."  She  kissed  these  words,  then 
looked  around  in  a  startled,  shamefaced  manner,  blush 
ing  even  in  the  solitude  of  her  room. 

Christmas  Eve  came,  but  with  it  a  wild  storm  of  wind 
and  sleet.  She  was  surprised  at  the  depth  of  her  disap 
pointment.  Would  he  even  come  to  call  through  such  a 
tempest? 

He  did  come,  and  come  early ;  and  she  said  demurely, 
"I  did  not  expect  you  on  such  a  night  as  this." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  half  humorously,  half 
seriously,  and  her  eyes  drooped  before  his.  "  You  will  know 
better  what  to  expect  next  time,"  was  his  comment. 

"  When  is  next  time? " 

"  Any  and  every  time  which  gives  me  a  chance  to  see 
you.  Who  should  know  that  better  than  you?" 

"Are  you  never  going  to  give  up?"  she  asked  with 
averted  face. 

"  Not  till  you  become  engaged." 

"  Hush  !     They  are  all  in  the  parlor." 

"  Well,  they  ought  to  know  as  much,  by  this  time,  also." 

She  thought  it  was  astonishing  how  he  made  himself  at 
home  in  the  family  circle.  In  half  an  hour  there  was 
scarcely  any  restraint  left  because  a  visitor  was  present.  Yet, 
as  if  impelled  by  some  mysterious  influence,  one  after  an 
other  slipped  out ;  and  Carrie  saw  with  strange  little  thrills 
of  dismay  that  she  would  soon  be  alone  with  that  indomi- 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT.  2$1 

table  lawyer.  She  signalled  to  her  mother,  but  the  old  lady's 
eyes  were  glued  to  her  knitting. 

At  last  they  were  alone,  and  she  expected  a  prompt  and 
powerful  appeal  from  the  plaintiff;  but  Marstern  drew  his 
chair  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth  and  chatted  so 
easily,  naturally,  and  kindly  that  her  trepidation  passed 
utterly.  It  began  to  grow  late,  and  a  heavier  gust  than  usual 
shook  the  house.  It  appeared  to  waken  him  to  the  dire  ne 
cessity  of  breasting  the  gale,  and  he  rose  and  said,  — 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  could  sit  here  forever,  Carrie.  It 's  just 
the  impression  I  had  a  year  ago  to-night.  You,  sitting 
there  by  the  fire,  gave  then,  and  give  now  to  this  place  the 
irresistible  charm  of  home.  I  think  I  had  then  the  de 
cided  beginning  of  the  divine  gravitation, — wasn't  that 
what  you  called  it?  —  which  has  been  growing  so  strong 
ever  since.  You  thought  then  that  the  ice-water  I  waded 
was  in  my  veins.  Do  you  think  so  now?  If  you  do  I 
shall  have  to  take  another  year  to  prove  the  contrary. 
Neither  am  I  convinced  of  the  absurdity  of  my  course, 
as  you  put  it  then.  I  studied  you  coolly  and  deliberately 
before  I  began  to  love  you,  and  reason  and  judgment  have 
had  no  chance  to  jeer  at  my  love." 

"  But,  Hedley,"  she  began  with  a  slight  tremor  in  her 
tones,  "you  are  idealizing  me  as  certainly  as  the  blindest. 
I  Ve  plenty  of  faults." 

"  I  have  n't  denied  that ;  so  have  I  plenty  of  faults. 
What  right  have  I  to  demand  a  perfection  I  can't  offer?  I 
have  known  people  to  marry  who  imagined  each  other  per 
fect,  and  then  come  to  court  for  a  separation  on  the  ground 
of  incompatibility  of  temperament.  They  learned  the 
meaning  of  that  long  word  too  late,  and  were  scarcely  longer 
about  it  than  the  word  itself.  Now,  I  'm  satisfied  that  I 
could  cordially  agree  with  you  on  some  points  and  lovingly 


252          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

disagree  with  you  on  others.  Chief  of  all  it  's  your  instinct 
to  make  a  home.  You  appear  better  at  your  own  fireside 
than  when  in  full  dress  at  a  reception.  You  — 

"  See  here,  Hedley,  you  've  got  to  give  up  this  suit  at 
last.  I  'm  engaged,"  and  she  looked  away  as  if  she  coukl 
not  meet  his  eyes. 

"  Engaged  ?  "  he  said  slowly,  looking  at  her  with  startled 
eyes. 

"  Well,  about  the  same  as  engaged.  My  heart  has  cer 
tainly  gone  from  me  beyond  recall." 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  was  foolish  enough  to  be 
gin  to  hope,"  he  faltered. 

"  You  must  dismiss  hope  to-night,  then,"  she  said,  her 
face  still  averted. 

He  was  silent  and  she  slowly  turned  toward  him.  He 
had  sunk  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands, 
the  picture  of  dejected  defeat. 

There  was  a  sudden  flash  of  mirth  through  tear-gemmed 
eyes,  a  glance  at  the  clock,  then  noiseless  steps,  and  she  was 
on  her  knees  beside  him,  her  arm  about  his  neck,  her  blush 
ing  face  near  his  wondering  eyes  as  she  breathed,  — 

"  Happy  Christmas,  Hedley  !  How  do  you  like  your  first 
gift;  and  what  room  is  there  now  for  hope?" 


THREE   THANKSGIVING   KISSES. 


TT  was  the  day  before  Thanksgiving.  The  brief  cloudy 
November  afternoon  was  fast  merging  into  early  twi 
light.  The  trees,  now  gaunt  and  bare,  creaked  and  groaned 
in  the  passing  gale,  clashing  their  icy  branches  together  with 
sounds  sadly  unlike  the  slumberous  rustle  of  their  foliage  in 
June.  And  that  same  foliage  was  now  flying  before  the  wind, 
swept  hither  and  thither,  like  exiles  driven  by  disaster  from 
the  moorings  of  home,  at  times  finding  a  brief  abiding- 
place,  and  then  carried  forward  to  parts  unknown  by  cir 
cumstances  beyond  control.  The  street  leading  into  the 
village  was  almost  deserted  ;  and  the  few  who  came  and  went 
hastened  on  with  fluttering  garments,  head  bent  down,  and  a 
shivering  sense  of  discomfort.  The  fields  were  bare  and 
brown ;  and  the  landscape  on  the  uplands  rising  in  the  dis 
tance  would  have  been  utterly  sombre  had  not  green  fields 
of  grain,  like  childlike,  faith  in  wintry  age,  relieved  the 
gloomy  outlook  and  prophesied  of  the  sunshine  and  golden 
harvest  of  a  new  year  and  life. 

But  bleak  November  found  no  admittance  in  Mrs.  Alford's 
cosey  parlor.  Though,  as  usual,  it  was  kept  as  the  room  for 
state  occasions,  it  was  not  a  stately  room.  It  was  furnished 
with  elegance  and  good  taste ;  but  what  was  better,  the 
genial  home  atmosphere  from  the  rest  of  the  house  had  in 
vaded  it,  and  one  did  not  feel,  on  entering  it  from  the  free- 


254          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

and-easy  sitting-room,  as  if  passing  from  a  sunny  climate  to 
the  icebergs  of  the  Pole.  Therefore  I  am  sure  my  reader 
will  follow  me  gladly  out  of  the  biting,  boisterous  wind  into 
the  homelike  apartment ;  and  as  we  stand  in  fancy  before 
the  glowing  grate,  we  will  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 
May-day  creature  who  is  its  sole  occupant. 

Elsie  Alford,  just  turning  seventeen,  appeared  younger  than 
her  years  warranted.  Some  girls  carry  the  child  far  into 
their  teens,  and  blend  the  mirthful  innocence  of  infancy  with 
the  richer,  fuller  life  of  budding  womanhood.  This  was  true 
of  Elsie.  Hers  was  not  the  forced  exotic  bloom  of  fashion 
able  life  ;  but  rather  one  of  the  native  blossoms  of  her  New- 
England  home,  having  all  the  delicacy  and  at  the  same  time 
hardiness  of  the  windflower.  She  was  also  as  shy  and 
easily  agitated,  and  yet,  like  the  flower  she  resembled,  well 
rooted  among  the  rocks  of  principle  and  truth.  She  was  the 
youngest  and  the  pet  of  the  household,  and  yet  the  "  pet 
ting"  was  not  of  that  kind  that  develops  selfishness  and  wil- 
fulness,  but  rather,  a  genial  sunlight  of  love  falling  upon 
her  as  a  focus  from  the  entire  family.  They  always  spoke 
of  her  as  "  little  Sis,"  or  the  "  child."  And  a  child  it 
seemed  she  would  ever  be,  with  her  kittenish  ways,  quick 
impulses,  and  swiftly-alternating  moods.  As  she  developed 
into  womanly  proportions,  her  grave,  business-like  father 
began  to  have  misgivings.  After  one  of  her  wild  sallies  at 
the  table,  where  she  kept  every  one  on  the  qui  vive  by  her 
unrestrained  chatter,  Mr.  Alford  said,  — 

"  Elsie,  will  you  ever  learn  to  be  a  woman?  " 

Looking  mischievously  at  him  through  her  curls,  she 
replied,  "  Yes ;  I  might  if  I  became  as  old  as  Mrs. 
Methuselah." 

They  finally  concluded  to  leave  Elsie's  cure  to  care  and 
trouble,  —  two  certain  elements  of  earthly  life  ;  and  yet  her 


THREE    THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  2$$ 

experience  of  either  would   be  slight    indeed,  could    their 
love  shield  her. 

But  it  would  not  be  exactly  care  or  trouble  that  would 
sober  Elsie  into  a  thoughtful  woman,  as  our  story  will 
show. 

Some  of  the  November  wind  seemed  in  her  curling  hair 
upon  this  fateful  day ;  but  her  fresh  young  April  face  was  a 
pleasant  contrast  to  the  scene  presented  from  the  window, 
to  which  she  kept  flitting  with  increasing  frequency.  It  cer 
tainly  was  not  the  dismal  and  darkening  landscape  that  so 
intensely  interested  her.  The  light  of  a  great  and  coming 
pleasure  was  in  her  face,  and  her  manner  was  one  of  restless, 
eager  expectancy.  Little  wonder.  Her  pet  brother,  the 
one  next  older  than  herself,  a  promising  young  theologue, 
was  coming  home  to  spend  Thanksgiving.  It  was  time  he 
appeared.  The  shriek  of  the  locomotive  had  announced 
the  arrival  of  the  train;  and  her  ardent  little  spirit  could 
scarcely  endure  the  moments  intervening  before  she  would 
almost  concentrate  herself  into  a  rapturous  kiss  and  embrace 
of  welcome,  for  the  favorite  brother  had  been  absent  several 
long  months. 

Her  mother  called  her  away  for  a  few  moments,  for  the 
good  old  lady  was  busy  indeed,  knowing  well  that  merely 
full  hearts  would  not  answer  for  a  New-England  Thanks 
giving.  But  the  moment  Elsie  was  free  she  darted  back  to 
the  window,  just  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse,  as  she  supposed, 
of  her  brother's  well-remembered  dark-gray  overcoat,  as  he 
was  ascending  the  front  steps. 

A  tall,  grave-looking  young  man,  an  utter  stranger  to  the 
place  and  family,  had  his  hand  upon  the  doorbell;  but 
before  he  could  ring  it,  the  door  flew  open,  and  a  lovely 
young  creature  precipitated  herself  on  his  neck,  like  a 
missile  fired  from  heavenly  battlements,  and  a  kiss  was 


256         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

pressed  upon  his  lips  that  he  afterward  admitted  to  have  felt 
even  to  the  "  toes  of  his  boots." 

But  his  startled  manner  caused  her  to  lift  her  face  from 
under  his  side-whiskers ;  and  though  the  dusk  was  deepen 
ing,  she  could  see  that  her  arms  were  around  an  utter 
stranger.  She  recoiled  from  him  with  a  bound,  and  trem 
bling  like  a  windflower  indeed,  her  large  blue  eyes  dilating  at 
the  intruder  with  a  dismay  beyond  words.  How  the  awk 
ward  scene  would  have  ended  it  were  hard  to  tell  had  not 
the  hearty  voice  of  one  coming  up  the  path  called  out,  — 

"  Hi,  there,  you  witch  !  who  is  that  you  are  kissing,  and 
then  standing  off  to  see  the  effect?  " 

There  was  no  mistake  this  time ;  so,  impelled  by  love, 
shame,  and  fear  of  "  that  horrid  man,"  she  fled,  half  sob 
bing,  to  his  arms. 

"No,  he  isn't  a  'horrid  man,'  either,"  whispered  her 
brother,  laughing.  "  He  is  a  classmate  of  mine.  Why, 
Stanhope,  how  are  you?  I  did  not  know  that  you  and  my 
sister  were  so  well  acquainted,"  he  added,  half  banteringly 
and  half  curiously,  for  as  yet  he  did  not  fully  understand  the 
scene. 

The  hall-lamp,  shining  through  the  open  door,  had  re 
vealed  the  features  of  the  young  man  (whom  we  must  now 
call  Mr.  Stanhope),  so  that  his  classmate  had  recognized 
him.  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  slip  away  in  the  dark 
ness,  and  so  escape  from  his  awkward  predicament ;  but 
George  Alford's  prompt  address  prevented  this  and  brought 
him  to  bay.  He  was  painfully  embarrassed,  but  managed 
to  stammer,  — 

"  I  was  taken  for  you,  I  think.  I  never  had  the  pleasure 
—  honor  of  meeting  your  sister." 

"  Oh,  ho  !  I  see  now.  My  wild  little  sister  kissed  before 
she  looked.  Well,  that  was  your  good  fortune.  I  could 


THREE   THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  257 

keep  two  Thanksgiving  days  on  the  strength  of  such  a  kiss 
as  that,"  cried  the  light-hearted  student,  shaking  the  diffi 
dent,  shrinking  Mr.  Stanhope  warmly  by  the  hand.  "  You 
will  hardly  need  a  formal  introduction  now.  But,  bless  me, 
where  is  she?  Has  the  November  wind  blown  her  away?  " 
"  I  think  your  sist —  the  lady  passed  around  to  the  side 
entrance.  I  fear  I  have  annoyed  her  sadly." 

"  Nonsense  !  A  good  joke,  —  something  to  tease  the  lit 
tle  witch  about.  But  come  in.  I  'm  forgetting  the  sacred 
rites." 

And  before  the  bewildered  Mr.  Stanhope  could  help  him 
self,  he  was  half  dragged  into  the  lighted  hall,  and  the  door 
shut  between  him  and  escape. 

In  the  mean  time,  Elsie,  like  a  whirlwind,  had  burst  into 
the  kitchen,  where  Mrs.  Alford  was  superintending  some 
savory  dishes. 

"  Oh,  mother,  George  has  come  and  has  a  horrid  man 
with  him,  who  nearly  devoured  me." 

And,  with  this  rather  feminine  mode  of  stating  the  case, 
she  darted  into  the  dusky,  fire-lighted  parlor,  from  whence, 
unseen,  she  could  reconnoitre  the  hall.  Mr.  Stanhope  was 
just  saying, — 

"  Please  let  me  go.  I  have  stood  between  you  and  your 
welcome  long  enough.  I  shall  only  be  an  intruder;  and 
besides,  as  an  utter  stranger,  I  have  no  right  to  stay."  To 
all  of  which  Elsie  devoutly  whispered  to  herself,  "  Amen." 

But  Mrs.  Alford  now  appeared,  and  after  a  warm,  moth 
erly  greeting  to  her  son,  turned  in  genial  courtesy  to  wel 
come  his  friend,  as  she  supposed. 

George  was  so  happy  that  he  wished  every  one  else  to  be 
the  same.  The  comical  episode  attending  Mr.  Stanhope's 
unexpected  appearance  just  hit  his  frolicsome  mood,  and 
promised  to  be  a  source  of  endless  merriment  if  he  could 

17 


258        TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

only  keep  his  classmate  over  the  coming  holiday.  More 
over,  he  long  had  wished  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
this  young  man,  whose  manner  at  the  seminary  had  deeply 
interested  him.  So  he  said,  — 

"  Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Stanhope,  a  classmate  of  mine.  I 
wish  you  would  help  me  persuade  him  to  stay." 

"  Why,  certainly,  I  supposed  you  expected  to  stay  with 
us,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Alford,  heartily. 

Mr.  Stanhope  looked  ready  to  sink  through  the  floor,  his 
face  crimson  with  vexation. 

"  I  do  assure  you,  madam,"  he  urged,  "  it  is  all  a  mis 
take.  I  am  not  an  invited  guest.  I  was  merely  calling  on 
a  little  matter  of  business,  when —  "  and  there  he  stopped. 
George  exploded  into  a  hearty,  uncontrollable  laugh ;  while 
Elsie,  in  the  darkness,  shook  her  little  fist  at  the  stranger, 
who  hastened  to  add,  "  Please  let  me  bid  you  good-evening. 
I  have  not  the  slightest  claim  on  your  hospitality. " 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  asked  Mrs.  Alford,  a  little 
mystified.  "  We  would  like  you  to  spend  at  least  part  of 
the  time  with  us." 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  be  here  very  long.  I  have  a  room 
at  the  hotel." 

"  Now,  look  here,  Stanhope,"  cried  George,  barring  all 
egress  by  planting  his  back  against  the  door,  "  do  you  take 
me,  a  half-fledged  theologue,  for  a  heathen?  Do  you  sup 
pose  that  I  could  be  such  a  churl  as  to  let  a  classmate  stay 
at  our  dingy,  forlorn  little  tavern  and  eat  hash  on  Thanks 
giving  Day?  I  could  never  look  you  in  the  face  at  recita 
tion  again.  Have  some  consideration  for  my  peace  of 
mind,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  find  our  home  quite  as  endur 
able  as  anything  Mr.  Starks  can  provide." 

"  Oh  !  as  to  that,  from  even  the  slight  glimpse  that  I 
have  had,  this  seems  more  like  a  home  than  anything  I  have 


THREE    THANKSGIVING  KISSES. 

known  for  many  years ;  but  I  cannot  feel  it  right  that  I,  an 
unexpected  stranger  —  " 

"  Come,  come  !  No  more  of  that !  You  know  what  is 
written  about  '  entertaining  strangers ;  '  so  that  is  your 
strongest  claim.  Moreover,  that  text  works  both  ways 
sometimes,  and  the  stranger  angel  finds  himself  among 
angels.  My  old  mother  here,  if  she  does  weigh  well  on 
toward  two  hundred,  is  more  like  one  than  anything  I  have 
yet  seen,  and  Elsie,  if  not  an  angel,  is  at  least  part  witch  and 
part  fairy.  But  you  need  not  fear  ghostly  entertainment 
from  mother's  larder.  As  you  are  a  Christian,  and  not  a 
Pagan,  no  more  of  this  reluctance.  Indeed,  nolens  volens, 
I  shall  not  permit  you  to  go  out  into  this  November  storm 
to-night ;  "  and  Elsie,  to  her  dismay,  saw  the  new-comer 
led  up  to  the  "  spare  room  "  with  a  sort  of  hospitable 
violence. 

With  flaming  cheeks  and  eyes  half  full  of  indignant  tears, 
she  now  made  onslaught  on  her  mother,  who  had  returned 
to  the  kitchen,  where  she  was  making  preparations  for  a 
supper  that  might  almost  answer  for  the  dinner  the  next 
day. 

"  Mother,  mother,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  could  you  keep 
that  disagreeable  stranger !  He  will  spoil  our  Thanks 
giving." 

"Why,  child,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Mrs.  Alford,  rais 
ing  her  eyes  in  surprise  to  her  daughter's  face,  that  looked 
like  a  red  moon  through  the  mist  of  savory  vapors  rising 
from  the  ample  cooking- stove.  "  I  don't  understand  you. 
Why  should  not  your  brother's  classmate  add  to  the  pleasure 
of  our  Thanksgiving?" 

"  Well,  perhaps  if  we  had  expected  him,  if  he  had  come 
in  some  other  way,  and  we  knew  more  about  him — " 

"Bless  you,  child,  what  a  formalist  you  have  become. 


260         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

You  stand  on  a  fine  point  of  etiquette,  as  if  it  were  the 
broad  foundation  of  hospitality ;  while  only  last  week  you 
wanted  a  ragged  tramp,  who  had  every  appearance  of  being 
a  thief,  to  stay  all  night.  Your  brother  thinks  it  a  special 
providence  that  his  friend  should  have  turned  up  so  un 
expectedly." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  sighed  Elsie.  "  If  that  is  what  the  doc 
trine  of  special  providence  means,  I  shall  need  a  new  con 
fession  of  faith."  Then,  a  sudden  thought  occurring  to  her, 
she  vanished,  while  her  mother  smiled,  saying,  — 

"  What  a  queer  child  she  is,  to  be  sure  !  " 

A  moment  later  Elsie  gave  a  sharp  knock  at  the  spare- 
room  door,  and  in  a  second,  was  in  the  farther  end  of  the 
dark  hall.  George  put  his  head  out. 

"  Come  here,"  she  whispered.  "  Are  you  sure  it 's  you  ?  " 
she  added,  holding  him  off  at  arm's  length. 

His  response  was  such  a  tempest  of  kisses  and  embraces 
that  in  her  nervous  state  she  was  quite  panic-stricken. 

"George,"  she  gasped,  "  have  mercy  on  me!" 

"  I  only  wished  to  show  you  how  he  felt,  so  you  would 
have  some  sympathy  for  him." 

"  If  you  don't  stop,"  said  the  almost  desperate  girl,  "  I 
will  shut  myself  up  and  not  appear  till  he  is  gone.  I  will 
any  way,  if  you  don't  make  me  a  solemn  promise." 

"  Leave  out  the  '  solemn.'  " 

"  No,  I  won't.  Upon  your  word  and  honor,  promise 
never  to  tell  what  has  happened,  —  my  mistake,  I  mean." 

"  Oh,  Elsie,  it 's  too  good  to  keep,"  laughed  George. 

"  Now,  George,  if  you  tell,"  sobbed  Elsie,  "  you  '11  spoil 
my  holiday,  your  visit,  and  everything." 

"  If  you  feel  that  way,  you  foolish  child,  of  course  I 
won't  tell.  Indeed,  I  suppose  I  should  not,  for  Stanhope 
seems  half  frightened  out  of  his  wits  also." 


THREE    THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  26 1 

"  Serves  him  right,  though  I  doubt  whether  he  has  many 
to  lose,"  said  Elsie,  spitefully. 

"Well,  I  will  do  my  best  to  keep  in,"  said  George,  sooth 
ingly,  and  stroking  her  curls.  "  But  you  will  let  it  all  out ; 
you  see.  The  idea  of  your  keeping  anything  with  your 
April  face  !  " 

Elsie  acted  upon  the  hint,  and  went  to  her  room  in  order 
to  remove  all  traces  of  agitation  before  the  supper-bell 
should  summon  her  to  meet  the  dreaded  stranger. 

In  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Alford  and  James,  the  second  son, 
had  come  up  from  the  village,  where  they  had  a  thriving 
business.  They  greeted  George's  friend  so  cordially  that 
it  went  some  way  toward  putting  the  diffident  youth  at  his 
ease ;  but  he  dreaded  meeting  Elsie  again  quite  as  much 
as  she  dreaded  meeting  him. 

"Who  is  this  Mr.  Stanhope?"  his  parents  asked,  as  they 
drew  George  aside  for  a  little  private  talk  after  his  long 
absence. 

"  Well,  he  is  a  classmate  with  whom  I  have  long  wished 
to  get  better  acquainted ;  but  he  is  so  shy  and  retiring  that 
I  have  made  little  progress.  He  came  from  another  sem 
inary,  and  entered  our  class  in  this  the  middle  year.  No 
one  seems  to  know  much  about  him ;  and  indeed  he  has 
shunned  all  intimacies  and  devotes  himself  wholly  to  his 
books.  The  recitation-room  is  the  one  place  where  he 
appears  well,  —  for  there  he  speaks  out,  as  if  forgetting 
himself,  or  rather,  losing  himself  in  some  truth  under  con 
templation.  Sometimes  he  will  ask  a  question  that  wakes 
up  both  class  and  professor ;  but  at  other  times  it  seems 
difficult  to  pierce  the  shell  of  his  reserve  or  diffidence. 
And  yet,  from  little  things  I  have  seen,  I  know  that  he  has 
a  good  warm  heart ;  and  the  working  of  his  mind  in  the 
recitation-room  fascinates  me.  Further  than  this  I  know 


262         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

little  about  him,  but  have  just  learned,  from  his  explanation 
as  to  his  unexpected  appearance  at  our  door,  that  he  is 
very  poor,  and  purposed  to  spend  his  holiday  vacation  as 
agent  for  a  new  magazine  that  is  offering  liberal  premiums. 
I  think  his  poverty  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  he  has  so 
shrunk  from  companionship  with  the  other  students.  He 
thinks  he  ought  to  go  out  and  continue  his  efforts  to-night." 

"  This  stormy  night ! "  ejaculated  kindly  Mrs.  Alford. 
"  It  would  be  barbarous." 

"  Certainly  it  would,  mother.  We  must  not  let  him. 
But  you  must  all  be  considerate,  for  he  seems  excessively 
diffident  and  sensitive ;  and  besides  —  but  no  matter." 

"  No  fear  but  that  we  will  soon  make  him  at  home.  And 
it 's  a  pleasure  to  entertain  people  who  are  not  surfeited 
with  attention.  I  don't  understand  Elsie,  however,  for  she 
seems  to  have  formed  a  violent  prejudice  against  him. 
From  the  nature  of  her  announcement  of  his  presence  I 
gathered  that  he  was  a  rather  forward  young  man." 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  George's  eye ;  but  he  merely 
said,  — 

"  Elsie  is  full  of  moods  and  tenses ;  but  her  kind  little 
heart  is  always  the  same,  and  that  will  bring  her  around  all 
right." 

They  were  soon  after  marshalled  to  the  supper-room. 
Elsie  slipped  in  among  the  others,  but  was  so  stately  and 
demure,  and  with  her  curls  brushed  down  so  straight  that 
you  would  scarcely  have  known  her.  Her  father  caught 
his  pet  around  the  waist,  and  was  about  to  introduce 
her,  when  George  hastened  to  say  with  the  solemnity 
of  an  undertaker  that  Elsie  and  Mr.  Stanhope  had  met 
before. 

Elsie  repented  the  promise  she  had  wrung  from  her 
brother,  for  any  amount  of  badinage  would  be  better  than 


THREE    THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  263 

this  depressing  formality.  She  took  her  seat,  not  daring  to 
look  at  the  obnoxious  guest ;  and  the  family  noticed  with 
surprise  that  they  had  never  seen  the  little  maiden  so 
quenched  and  abashed  before.  But  George  good-naturedly 
tried  to  make  the  conversation  general,  so  as  to  give  them 
time  to  recover  themselves. 

Elsie  soon  ventured  to  steal  shy  looks  at  Mr.  Stanhope, 
and  with  her  usual  quickness  discovered  that  he  was  more 
in  terror  of  her  than  she  of  him,  and  she  exulted  in  the 
fact. 

"  I  '11  punish  him  well,  if  I  get  a  chance,"  she  thought 
with  a  certain  phase  of  the  feminine  sense  of  justice.  But 
the  sadness  of  his  face  quite  disarmed  her  when  her  mother, 
in  well-meant  kindness,  asked,  — 

"  Where  is  your  home  located,  Mr.  Stanhope  ?  " 

"  In  the  seminary,"  he  answered  in  rather  a  low  tone. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  have  no  better  one 
than  a  forlorn  cell  in  Dogma  Hall  ?  "  exclaimed  George, 
earnestly. 

Mr.  Stanhope  crimsoned,  and  then  grew  pale,  but  tried  to 
say  lightly,  "  An  orphan  of  my  size  and  years  is  not  a  very 
moving  object  of  sympathy ;  but  one  might  well  find  it  diffi 
cult  not  to  break  the  Tenth  Commandment  while  seeing 
how  you  are  surrounded." 

Elsie  was  vexed  at  her  disposition  to  relent  toward 
him ;  she  so  hardened  her  face,  however,  that  James  rallied 
her,  — 

"  Why,  Puss,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Yours  is  the  most  un 
promising  Thanksgiving  phiz  I  have  seen  to-day.  '  Count 
your  marcies.'  " 

Elsie  blushed  so  violently,  and  Mr.  Stanhope  looked  so 
distressed  that  James  finished  his  supper  in  puzzled  silence, 
thinking,  however,  "  What  has  come  over  the  little  witch  ? 


264         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

For  a  wonder,  she  seems  to  have  met  a  man  that  she  is 
afraid  of;  but  the  joke  is,  he  seems  even  more  afraid  of 
her." 

In  the  social  parlor  some  of  the  stiffness  wore  off;  but 
Elsie  and  Mr.  Stanhope  kept  on  opposite  sides  of  the  room 
and  had  very  little  to  say  to  each  other.  Motherly  Mrs. 
Alford  drew  the  young  man  out  sufficiently,  however,  to 
become  deeply  interested  in  him. 

By  the  next  morning  time  for  thought  had  led  him  to 
feel  that  he  must  trespass  on  their  hospitality  no  longer. 
Moreover,  he  plainly  recognized  that  his  presence  was  an 
oppression  and  restraint  upon  Elsie ;  and  he  was  very  sorry 
that  he  had  stayed  at  all.  But  when  he  made  known  his 
purpose  the  family  would  not  listen  to  it. 

"  I  should  feel  dreadfully  hurt  if  you  left  us  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Alford,  so  decidedly  that  he  was  in  a  dilemma,  and 
stole  a  timid  look  toward  Elsie,  who  at  once  guessed  his 
motive  in  going  away.  Her  kind  heart  got  the  better  of 
her;  and  her  face  relented  in  a  sudden  reassuring  smile. 
Then  she  turned  hastily  away.  Only  George  saw  and  un 
derstood  the  little  side  scene  and  the  reason  Mr.  Stanhope 
was  induced  to  remain.  Then  Elsie,  in  her  quickly  varying 
moods,  was  vexed  at  herself,  and  became  more  cold  and 
distant  than  ever.  "  He  will  regard  me  as  only  a  pert, 
forward  miss,  but  I  will  teach  him  better,"  she  thought ;  and 
she  astonished  the  family  more  and  more  by  a  stateliness 
utterly  unlike  herself.  Mr.  Stanhope  sincerely  regretted 
that  he  had  not  broken  away,  in  spite  of  the  others ;  but 
in  order  not  to  seem  vacillating  he  resolved  to  stay  till  the 
following  morning,  even  though  he  departed  burdened  with 
the  thought  that  he  had  spoiled  the  day  for  one  of  the 
family.  Things  had  now  gone  so  far  that  leaving  might 
only  lead  to  explanations  and  more  general  annoyances,  for 


THREE    THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  26$ 

George  had  intimated  that  the  little  mistake  of  the  previous 
evening  should  remain  a  secret. 

And  yet  he  sincerely  wished  she  would  relent  toward  him, 
for  she  could  not  make  her  sweet  little  face  repellent.  The 
kiss  she  had  given  him  still  seemed  to  tingle  in  his  very 
soul,  while  her  last  smile  was  like  a  ray  of  warmest  sunshine. 
But  her  face,  never  designed  to  be  severe,  was  averted. 

After  having  heard  the  affairs  of  the  nation  discussed  in 
a  sound,  scriptural  manner,  they  all  sat  down  to  a  dinner 
such  as  had  never  blessed  poor  Mr.  Stanhope's  vision  be 
fore.  A  married  son  and  daughter  returned  after  church, 
and  half  a  dozen  grandchildren  enlivened  the  gathering. 
There  was  need  of  them,  for  Elsie,  usually  in  a  state  of 
wild  effervescence  upon  such  occasions,  was  now  demure 
and  comparatively  silent.  The  children,  with  whom  she 
was  accustomed  to  romp  like  one  of  them,  were  perplexed 
indeed ;  and  only  the  intense  excitement  of  a  Thanksgiving 
dinner  diverted  their  minds  from  Aunt  Elsie,  so  sadly 
changed.  She  was  conscious  that  all  were  noting  her  ab 
sent  manner,  and  this  embarrassed  and  vexed  her  more ; 
and  yet  she  seemed  under  a  miserable  paralysis  that  she 
could  neither  explain  nor  escape. 

"  If  we  had  only  laughed  it  off  at  first,"  she  groaned  to 
herself  j  "  but  now  the  whole  thing  grows  more  absurd  and 
disagreeable  every  moment." 

"Why,  Elsie,"  said  her  father,  banteringly,  "you  doubted, 
the  other  day  whether  Mrs.  Methuselah's  age  would  ever 
sober  you ;  and  yet  I  think  that  good  old  lady  would  have 
looked  more  genial  on  Thanksgiving  Day.  What  is  the 
matter?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  sermon,"  she  said. 

Amid  the  comic  elevation  of  eyebrows,  George  said 
slyly,  — 


266         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"Tell  us  the  text." 

Overwhelmed  with  confusion,  she  darted  a  reproachful 
glance  at  him  and  muttered, — 

"  I  did  not  say  anything  about  the  text." 

"  Well,  tell  us  about  the  sermon  then,"  laughed  James. 

"  No,"  said  Elsie,  sharply.  "  I  '11  quote  you  a  text : 
'  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,'  and  let  me  alone." 

They  saw  that  for  some  reason  she  could  not  bear  teas 
ing,  and  that  such  badinage  troubled  Mr.  Stanhope  also. 
George  came  gallantly  to  the  rescue,  and  the  dinner-party 
grew  so  merry  that  Elsie  thawed  perceptibly  and  Stanhope 
was  beguiled  into  several  witty  speeches.  At  each  one 
Elsie  opened  her  eyes  in  wider  and  growing  appreciation. 
At  last,  when  they  rose  from  their  coffee,  she  came  to  the 
surprising  conclusion, — 

"  Why,  he  is  not  stupid  and  bad-looking  after  all." 

George  was  bent  on  breaking  the  ice  between  them,  and 
so  proposed  that  the  younger  members  of  the  family  party 
should  go  up  a  swollen  stream  and  see  the  fall.  But  Elsie 
flanked  herself  with  a  sister-in-law  on  one  side  and  a  niece  on 
the  other,  while  Stanhope  was  so  diffident  that  nothing  but 
downright  encouragement  would  bring  him  to  her  side.  So 
George  was  almost  in  despair.  Elsie's  eyes  had  been  con 
veying  favorable  impressions  to  her  reluctant  mind  through 
out  the  walk.  She  sincerely  regretted  that  such  an  absurd 
barrier  had  grown  up  between  her  and  Stanhope,  but  could 
not  for  the  life  of  her,  especially  before  others,  do  anything 
to  break  the  awkward  spell. 

At  last  they  were  on  their  return,  and  were  all  grouped 
together  on  a  little  bluff,  watching  the  water  pour  foamingly 
through  a  narrow  gorge. 

"  Oh,  see,"  cried  Elsie,  suddenly  pointing  to  the  oppo 
site  bank,  "  what  beautiful  moss  that  is  over  there  !  It  is 


THREE    THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  26j 

just  the  kind  I  have  been  wanting.  Oh,  dear  !  there  is  n't 
a  bridge  within  half  a  mile." 

Stanhope  glanced  around  a  moment,  and  then  said  gal 
lantly,  "  I  will  get  you  the  moss,  Miss  Alford."  They  saw 
that  in  some  inconceivable  way  he  intended  crossing  where 
they  stood.  The  gorge  was  much  too  wide  for  the  most 
vigorous  leap,  so  Elsie  exclaimed  eagerly,  — 

"  Oh,  please  don't  take  any  risk !  What  is  a  little 
moss?  " 

"  I  say,  Stanhope,"  remonstrated  George,  seriously,  "  it 
would  be  no  laughing  matter  if  you  should  fall  in  there." 

But  Stanhope  only  smiled,  threw  off  his  overcoat,  and  but 
toned  his  undercoat  closely  around  him.  George  groaned  to 
himself,  "  This  will  be  worse  than  the  kissing  scrape,"  and 
was  about  to  lay  a  restraining  grasp  upon  his  friend.  But 
he  slipped  away,  and  lightly  went  up  hand-over-hand  a  tall, 
slender  sapling  on  the  edge  of  the  bank,  the  whole  party 
gathering  round  in  breathless  expectation.  Having  reached 
its  slender,  swaying  top,  he  threw  himself  out  on  the  land 
side.  The  tree  bent  at  once  to  the  ground  with  his  weight, 
but  without  snapping,  showing  that  it  was  tough  and  fi 
brous.  Holding  firmly  to  the  top,  he  gave  a  strong  spring, 
which,  with  the  spring  of  the  bent  sapling,  sent  him  well 
over  the  gorge  on  the  firm  ground  beyond. 

There  was  a  round  of  applause  from  the  little  group  he 
had  just  left,  in  which  Elsie  joined  heartily.  Her  eyes  were 
glowing  with  admiration,  for  when  was  not  power  and  dar 
ing  captivating  to  a  woman?  Then,  in  sudden  alarm  and 
forgetfulness  of  her  former  coolness,  she  exclaimed,  — 

" But  how  will  you  get  back?  " 

"This  is  my  bridge,"  he  replied,  smiling  brightly  across 
to  her,  and  holding  on  to  the  slender  young  tree.  "  You 
perceive  that  I  was  brought  up  in  the  country." 


268         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES 

So  saying,  he  tied  the  sapling  down  to  a  root  with  a 
handkerchief,  and  then  proceeded  to  fill  another  with 
moss. 

As  George  saw  Elsie's  face  while  she  watched  Stanhope 
gather  the  coveted  trifle,  he  chuckled  to  himself,  — 

"The  ice  is  broken  between  them  now." 

But  Stanhope  had  insecurely  fastened  the  sapling  down. 
The  strain  upon  the  knot  was  too  severe,  and  suddenly  the 
young  tree  flew  up  and  stood  erect  but  quivering,  with  his 
handkerchief  fluttering  in  its  top  as  a  symbol  of  defeat. 
There  was  an  exclamation  of  dismay,  and  Elsie  again 
asked  with  real  anxiety  in  her  tone, — 

"  How  will  you  get  back  now?  " 

Stanhope  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  confess  I  am  defeated,  for  there  is  no  like  sapling  on 
this  side ;  but  I  have  the  moss,  and  can  join  you  at  the 
bridge  below,  if  nothing  better  offers." 

"  George,"  said  Elsie,  indignantly,  "  don't  go  away  and 
leave  Mr.  Stanhope's  handkerchief  in  that  tree." 

"  Bless  you,  child,"  cried  George,  mischievously,  and 
leading  the  way  down  the  path,  "  I  can't  climb  any  more 
than  a  pumpkin.  You  will  have  to  go  back  with  him  after 
it,  or  let  it  wave  as  a  memento  of  his  gallantry  on  your 
behalf." 

"  If  I  can  only  manage  to  throw  them  together  without 
any  embarrassing  third  parties  present,  the  ridiculous  re 
straint  they  are  under  will  soon  vanish,"  he  thought ;  and 
so  he  hastened  his  steps.  The  rest  trooped  after  him, 
while  Stanhope  made  his  way  with  difficulty  on  the  oppo 
site  bank,  where  there  was  no  path.  His  progress  there 
fore  was  slow ;  and  Elsie  saw  that  if  she  did  not  linger  he 
would  be  left  behind.  Common  politeness  forbade  this, 
and  so  she  soon  found  herself  alone,  carrying  his  overcoat 


THREE   THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  269 

on  one  bank,  and  he  keeping  pace  with  her  on  the  other. 
She  comforted  herself  at  first  with  the  thought  that  with  the 
brawling,  deafening  stream  between  them,  there  would  be 
no  chance  for  embarrassing  conversation.  But  soon  her 
sympathies  became  aroused,  as  she  saw  him  toilsomely 
making  his  way  over  the  rocks  and  through  the  tangled 
thickets ;  and  as  she  could  not  speak  to  him,  she  smiled 
her  encouragement  so  often  that  she  felt  it  would  be  im 
possible  to  go  back  to  her  old  reserve. 

Stanhope  now  came  to  a  little  opening  in  the  brush. 
The  cleared  ground  sloped  evenly  down  to  the  stream, 
and  its  current  was  divided  by  a  large  rock.  He  hailed 
the  opportunity  here  offered  with  delight,  for  he  was  very 
anxious  to  speak  to  her  before  they  should  join  the  others. 
So  he  startled  Elsie  by  walking  out  into  the  clearing,  away 
from  the  stream. 

"  Well,  I  declare  ;  that 's  cool,  to  go  and  leave  me  alone 
without  a  word,"  she  thought. 

But  she  was  almost  terror-stricken  to  see  him  turn  and 
dart  to  the  torrent  like  an  arrow.  With  a  long  flying  leap, 
he  landed  on  the  rock  in  the  midst  of  the  stream,  and 
then,  without  a  second's  hesitation,  with  the  impetus  al 
ready  acquired,  sprang  for  the  solid  ground  where  she 
stood,  struck  it,  wavered,  and  would  have  fallen  backward 
into  the  water  had  not  she,  quick  as  thought,  stepped  for 
ward  and  given  him  her  hand. 

"  You  have  saved  me  from  a  ducking,  if  not  worse,"  he 
said,  giving  the  little  rescuing  hand  a  warm  pressure. 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  she,  panting,  "  please  don't  do  any 
more  dreadful  things.  I  shall  be  careful  how  I  make  any 
wishes  in  your  hearing  again." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  replied.  And 
then  there  was  an  awkward  silence. 


27O         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Elsie  could  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  refer  to  the 
handkerchief  they  had  left  behind. 

"Will  you  wait  for  me  till  I  run  and  get  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  will  go  back  with  you,  if  you  will  permit  me,"  she 
said  timidly. 

"  Indeed,  I  could  not  ask  so  much  of  you  as  that." 

"  And  yet  you  could  about  the  same  as  risk  your  neck 
to  gratify  a  whim  of  mine,"  she  said  more  gratefully  than 
she  intended. 

"  Please  do  not  think,"  he  replied  earnestly,  "  that  I 
have  been  practising  cheap  heroics.  As  I  said,  I  was  a 
country  boy,  and  in  my  early  home  thought  nothing  of 
doing  such  things."  But  even  the  brief  reference  to  that 
vanished  home  caused  him  to  sigh  deeply,  and  Elsie  gave 
him  a  wistful  look  of  sympathy. 

For  a  few  moments  they  walked  on  in  silence.  Then 
Mr.  Stanhope  turned,  and  with  some  hesitation  said,  — 

"  Miss  Alford,  I  did  very  wrong  to  stay  after  —  after  last 
evening.  But  my  better  judgment  was  borne  down  by  in 
vitations  so  cordial  that  I  hardly  knew  how  to  resist  them. 
At  the  same  time  I  now  realize  that  I  should  have  done  so. 
Indeed,  I  would  go  away  at  once,  would  not  such  a  course 
only  make  matters  worse.  And  yet,  after  receiving  so 
much  kindness  from  your  family,  more  than  has  blessed 
me  for  many  long  years,  —  for  since  my  dear  mother  died 
I  have  been  quite  alone  in  the  world,  —  I  feel  I  cannot  go 
away  without  some  assurance  or  proof  that  you  will  forgive 
me  for  being  such  a  kill-joy  in  your  holiday." 

Elsie's  vexation  with  herself  now  knew  no  bounds.  She 
stopped  in  the  path,  determining  that  she  would  clear  up 
matters,  cost  what  it  might. 

"  Mr.  Stanhope,"  she  said,  "  will  you  grant  a  request  that 
will  contain  such  assurance,  or  rather,  will  show  you  that 


THREE   THANKSGIVING  KISSES. 

I  am  heartily  ashamed  of  my  foolish  course  ?  Will  you  not 
spend  next  Thanksgiving  with  us,  and  give  me  a  chance  to 
retrieve  myself  from  first  to  last?  " 

His  face  brightened  wonderfully  as  he  replied,  "  I  will 
only  be  too  glad  to  do  so,  if  you  truly  wish  it." ' 

"  I  do  wish  it,"  she  said  earnestly.  "  What  must  you 
think  of  me  ?  "  (His  eyes  then  expressed  much  admira 
tion  ;  but  hers  were  fixed  on  the  ground  and  half  filled 
with  tears  of  vexation.)  Then,  with  a  pretty  humility 
that  was  exquisite  in  its  simplicity  and  artlessness,  she 
added,  — 

"  You  have  noticed  at  home  that  they  call  me  '  child,'  — 
and  indeed,  I  am  little  more  than  one,  —  and  now  see  that 
I  have  behaved  like  a  very  silly  and  naughty  one  toward 
you.  I  have  trampled  on  every  principle  of  hospitality, 
kindness,  and  good-breeding.  I  have  no  patience  with 
myself,  and  I  wish  another  chance  to  show  that  I  can  do 
better.  I  —  " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Alford,  please  do  not  judge  yourself  so  harshly 
and  unjustly,"  interrupted  Stanhope. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  sighed  Elsie,  "  I  "m  so  sorry  for  what  hap 
pened  last  night.  We  all  might  have  had  such  a  good 
time." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Stanhope,  demurely,  "  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  be  also." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  not?  "  she  asked, 
turning  suddenly  upon  him. 

"Oh,  well,  certainly,  for  your  sake,"  he  said  with  rising 
color. 

"But  not  for  your  own?"  she  asked  with  almost  the 
ndivetf  of  a  child. 

He  turned  away  with  a  perplexed  laugh  and  replied, 
"  Really,  Miss  Alford,  you  are  worse  than  the  Catechism." 


2/2          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  half-amused,  half-surprised  ex 
pression,  the  thought  occurring  to  her  for  the  first  time  that 
it  might  not  have  been  so  disagreeable  to  him  after  all ; 
and  somehow  this  thought  was  quite  a  relief  to  her.  But 
she  said,  "  I  thought  you  would  regard  me  as  a  hoyden 
of  the  worst  species." 

"  Because  you  kissed  your  brother  ?  I  have  never  for  a 
moment  forgotten  that  it  was  only  your  misfortune  that  I 
was  not  he." 

"  I  should  have  remembered  that  it  was  not  your  fault. 
But  here  is  your  handkerchief,  flying  like  a  flag  of  truce ; 
so  let  bygones  be  bygones.  My  terms  are  that  you  come 
again  another  year,  and  give  me  a  chance  to  entertain  my 
brother's  friend  as  a  sister  ought." 

"  I  am  only  too  glad  to  submit  to  them,"  he  eagerly  re 
plied,  and  then  added,  so  ardently  as  to  deepen  the  roses 
already  in  her  cheeks,  "  If  such  are  your  punishments,  Miss 
Alford,  how  delicious  must  be  your  favors  !  " 

By  common  consent  the  subject  was  dropped ;  and  with 
tongues  released  from  awkward  restraint,  they  chatted  freely 
together,  till  in  the  early  twilight  they  reached  her  home. 
The  moment  they  entered  George  exultingly  saw  that  the 
skies  were  serene. 

But  Elsie  would  never  be  the  frolicsome  child  of  the  past 
again.  As  she  surprised  the  family  at  dinner,  so  now  at 
supper  they  could  scarcely  believe  that  the  elegant,  graceful 
young  lady  was  the  witch  of  yesterday.  She  had  resolved 
with  all  her  soul  to  try  to  win  some  place  in  Mr.  Stanhope's 
respect  before  he  departed,  and  never  did  a  little  maiden 
succeed  better. 

In  the  evening  they  had  music ;  and  Mr.  Stanhope  pleased 
them  all  with  his  fine  tenor,  while  Elsie  delighted  him  by 
her  clear  birdlike  voice.  So  the  hours  fled  away. 


THREE    THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  273 

"You  think  better  of  the  'horrid  man,'  little  Sis,"  said 
George,  as  he  kissed  her  good-night. 

"  I  was  the  horrid  one,"  said  Elsie,  penitently.  "  I  can 
never  forgive  myself  my  absurd  conduct.  But  he  has  prom 
ised  to  come  again  next  Thanksgiving,  and  give  me  a  chance 
to  do  better ;  so  don't  you  fail  to  bring  him." 

George  gave  a  long,  low  whistle,  and  then  said,  "  Oh  ! 
ah  !  Seems  to  me  you  are  coming  on,  for  an  innocent. 
Are  we  to  get  mixed  up  again  in  the  twilight?" 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  Elsie,  with  a  peony  face,  and  she 
slammed  her  door  upon  him. 

The  next  morning  the  young  man  took  his  leave,  and 
Elsie's  last  words  were,  — 

"  Mr.  Stanhope,  remember  your  promise." 

And  he  did  remember  more  than  that,  for  this  brief  visit 
had  enshrined  a  sweet,  girlish  face  within  his  heart  of  hearts, 
and  he  no  longer  felt  lonely  and  orphaned.  He  and  George 
became  the  closest  friends,  and  messages  from  the  New- 
England  home  came  to  him  with  increasing  frequency,  which 
he  returned  with  prodigal  interest.  It  also  transpired  that 
he  occasionally  wrote  for  the  papers,  and  Elsie  insisted  that 
these  should  be  sent  to  her ;  while  he  of  course  wrote  much 
better  with  the  certainty  that  she  would  be  his  critic.  Thus, 
though  separated,  they  daily  became  better  acquainted,  and 
during  the  year  George  found  it  not  very  difficult  to  induce 
his  friend  to  make  several  visits. 

But  it  was  with  joy  that  seemed  almost  too  rich  for  earthly 
experience  that  he  found  himself  walking  up  the  village 
street  with  George  the  ensuing  Thanksgiving  Eve.  Elsie 
was  at  the  door ;  and  he  pretended  to  be  disconsolate  that 
his  reception  was  not  the  same  as  on  the  previous  year. 
Indeed  she  had  to  endure  not  a  little  chaffing,  for  her  mis 
take  was  a  family  joke  now. 

18 


2/4         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

It  was  a  peerless  Thanksgiving  eve  and  day,  —  one  of  the 
sunlighted  heights  of  human  happiness. 

After  dinner  they  all  again  took  a  walk  up  the  brawling 
stream,  and  Stanhope  and  Elsie  became  separated  from  the 
rest,  though  not  so  innocently  as  on  the  former  occasion. 

"  See  !  "  cried  Elsie,  pointing  to  the  well-remembered 
sapling,  which  she  had  often  visited.  "  There  fluttered  our 
flag  of  truce  last  year." 

Stanhope  seized  her  hand  and  said  eagerly,  "  And  here 
I  again  break  the  truce,  and  renew  the  theme  we  dropped 
at  this  place.  Oh,  Elsie,  I  have  felt  that  kiss  in  the  depths 
of  my  heart  every  hour  since ;  and  in  that  it  led  to  my 
knowing  and  loving  you,  it  has  made  every  day  from  that 
time  one  of  thanksgiving.  If  you  could  return  my  love,  as  I 
have  dared  to  hope,  it  would  be  a  happiness  beyond  words. 
If  I  could  venture  to  take  one  more  kiss,  as  a  token  that  it 
is  returned,  I  could  keep  Thanksgiving  forever." 

Her  hand  trembled  in  his,  but  was  not  withdrawn.  Her 
blushing  face  was  turned  away  toward  the  brawling  stream ; 
but  she  saw  not  its  foam,  she  heard  not  its  hoarse  murmurs. 
A  sweeter  music  was  in  her  ears.  She  seemed  under  a 
delicious  spell,  but  soon  became  conscious  that  a  pair  of 
dark  eyes  were  looking  down  eagerly,  anxiously  for  her 
answer.  Shyly  raising  hers,  that  now  were  like  dewy  violets, 
she  said  with  a  little  of  her  old  witchery,  — 

"  I  suppose  you  will  have  to  kiss  me  this  Thanksgiving, 
to  make  things  even." 

Stanhope  needed  no  broader  hint. 

"I  owe  you  a  heavy  grudge,"  said  Mr.  Alford,  in  the 
evening.  "  A  year  ago  you  robbed  me  of  my  child,  for  lit 
tle,  kittenish  Elsie  became  a  thoughtful  woman  from  the 
day  you  were  here ;  and  now  you  are  going  to  take  away 
the  daughter  of  my  old  age." 


THREE    THANKSGIVING  KISSES.  2?$ 

"  Yes,  indeed,  husband.  Now  you  know  how  my  father 
felt,"  said  Mrs.  Alford,  at  the  same  time  wiping  something 
from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"Bless  me,  are  you  here?"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
wheeling  round  to  his  wife.  "  Mr.  Stanhope,  I  have  noth 
ing  more  to  say." 

"  I  declare,"  exulted  George,  "  that  '  horrid  man  will 
devour  '  Elsie  yet." 

"  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  !  "  laughed  big- voiced,  big-hearted 
James.  "  The  idea  of  our  little  witch  of  an  Elsie  being  a 
minister's  wife  !  " 

It  is  again  Thanksgiving  Eve.  The  trees  are  gaunt,  the 
fields  bare  and  brown,  with  dead  leaves  whirling  across 
them ;  but  a  sweeter  than  June  sunshine  seems  filling  the 
cosey  parlor  where  Elsie,  a  radiant  bride,  is  receiving  her 
husband's  first  kiss  almost  on  the  moment  that  she  with  her 
lips  so  unexpectedly  kindled  the  sacred  fire,  three  years 
before. 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S   CHRISTMAS. 


"PICNICKING  in  December  would  be  a  dreary  expe- 
rience  even  if  one  could  command  all  the  appliances 
of  comfort  which  outdoor  life  permitted.  This  would  be 
especially  true  in  the  latitude  of  Boston  and  on  the  bleak 
hills  overlooking  that  city  and  its  environing  waters.  Dreary 
business  indeed  Ezekiel  Watkins  regarded  it  as  he  shivered 
over  the  smoky  camp-fire  which  he  maintained  with  diffi 
culty.  The  sun  was  sinking  into  the  southwest  so  early  in 
the  day  that  he  remarked  irritably,  "Durned  if  it  was 
worth  while  for  it  to  rise  at  all." 

Ezekiel  Watkins,  or  Zeke,  as  he  was  generally  known 
among  his  comrades,  had  ceased  to  be  a  resident  on  that 
rocky  hillside  from  pleasure.  His  heart  was  in  a  Con 
necticut  valley  in  more  senses  than  one  ;  and  there  was  not 
a  more  homesick  soldier  in  the  army.  It  will  be  readily 
guessed  that  the  events  of  our  story  occurred  more  than 
a  century  ago.  The  shots  fired  at  Bunker  Hill  had  echoed 
in  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  New-England  colonies, 
and  the  heart  of  Zeke  Watkins,  among  thousands  of  others, 
had  been  fired  with  military  ardor.  With  companions  in 
like  frame  of  mind  he  had  trudged  to  Boston,  breathing 
slaughter  and  extermination  against  the  red-coated  instru 
ments  of  English  tyranny.  To  Zeke  the  expedition  had 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  277 

many  of  the  elements  of  an  extended  bear-hunt,  much 
exalted.  There  was  a  spice  of  danger  and  a  rich  promise 
of  novelty  and  excitement.  The  march  to  the  lines  about 
Boston  had  been  a  continuous  ovation ;  grandsires  came 
out  from  the  wayside  dwellings  and  blessed  the  rustic 
soldiers ;  they  were  dined  profusely  by  the  housewives,  and 
if  not  wined,  there  had  been  slight  stint  in  New- England 
rum  and  cider;  the  apple-cheeked  daughters  of  the  land 
gave  them  the  meed  of  heroes  in  advance,  and  abated 
somewhat  of  their  ruddy  hues  at  the  thought  of  the  dangers 
to  be  incurred.  Zeke  was  visibly  dilated  by  all  this  atten 
tion,  incense,  and  military  glory ;  and  he  stepped  forth  from 
each  village  and  hamlet  as  if  the  world  were  scarcely  large 
enough  for  the  prowess  of  himself  and  companions.  Even 
on  parade  he  was  as  stiff  as  his  long-barrelled  flintlock, 
looking  as  if  England  could  hope  for  no  quarter  at  his 
hands ;  yet  he  permitted  no  admiring  glances  from  bright 
eyes  to  escape  him.  He  had  not  traversed  half  the  distance 
between  his  native  hamlet  and  Boston  before  he  was  abun 
dantly  satisfied  that  pretty  Susie  Rolliffe  had  made  no 
mistake  in  honoring  him  among  the  recruits  by  marks  of 
especial  favor.  He  wore  in  his  squirrel-skin  cap  the  bit 
of  blue  ribbon  she  had  given  him,  and  with  the  mien  of  a 
Homeric  hero  had  intimated  darkly  that  it  might  be  crimson 
before  she  saw  it  again.  She  had  clasped  her  hands,  stifled 
a  little  sob,  and  looked  at  him  admiringly.  He  needed  no 
stronger  assurance  than  her  eyes  conveyed  at  that  moment. 
She  had  been  shy  and  rather  unapproachable  before,  sought 
by  others  than  himself,  yet  very  chary  of  her  smiles  and 
favors  to  all.  Her  ancestors  had  fought  the  Indians,  and 
had  bequeathed  to  the  demure  little  maiden  much  of  their 
own  indomitable  spirit.  She  had  never  worn  her  heart  on 
her  sleeve,  and  was  shy  of  her  rustic  admirers  chiefly  because 


2/8         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

none  of  them  had  realized  her  ideals  of  manhood  created 
by  fireside  stories  of  the  past. 

Zeke's  chief  competitor  for  Susie's  favor  had  been  Zebulon 
Jarvis ;  and  while  he  had  received  little  encouragement, 
he  laid  his  unostentatious  devotion  at  her  feet  unstintedly, 
and  she  knew  it.  Indeed,  she  was  much  inclined  to  laugh 
at  him,  for  he  was  singularly  bashful,  and  a  frown  from  her 
overwhelmed  him.  Unsophisticated  Susie  reasoned  that 
any  one  who  could  be  so  afraid  of  her  could  not  be  much 
of  a  man.  She  had  never  heard  of  his  doing  anything 
bold  and  spirited.  It  might  be  said,  indeed,  that  the 
attempt  to  wring  a  livelihood  for  his  widowed  mother  and 
for  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters  from  the  stumpy,  rocky 
farm  required  courage  of  the  highest  order ;  but  it  was  not 
of  a  kind  that  appealed  to  the  fancy  of  a  romantic  young 
girl.  Nothing  finer  or  grander  had  Zebulon  attempted 
before  the  recruiting  officer  came  to  Opinquake,  and  when 
he  came,  poor  Zeb  appeared  to  hang  back  so  timorously 
that  he  lost  what  little  place  he  had  in  Susie's  thoughts. 
She  was  ignorant  of  the  struggle  taking  place  in  his  loyal 
heart.  More  intense  even  than  his  love  for  her  was  the  pa 
triotic  fire  which  smouldered  in  -his  breast ;  yet  when  other 
young  men  were  giving  in  their  names  and  drilling  on  the 
village  green,  he  was  absent.  To  the  war  appeals  of  those 
who  sought  him,  he  replied  briefly,  "  Can't  leave  till  fall." 

"  But  the  fighting  will  be  over  long  before  that,"  it  was 
urged. 

"  So  much  the  better  for  others,  then,  if  not  for  me." 

Zeke  Watkins  made  it  his  business  that  Susie  should  hear 
this  reply  in  the  abbreviated  form  of,  "  So  much  the  better, 
then." 

She  had  smiled  scornfully,  and  it  must  be  added,  a  little 
bitterly.  In  his  devotion  Zeb  had  been  so  helpless,  so  diffi- 


SUSfE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS. 


279 


dently  unable  to  take  his  own  part  and  make  advances  that 
she,  from  odd  little  spasms  of  sympathy,  had  taken  his  part 
for  him,  and  laughingly  repeated  to  herself  in  solitude  all 
the  fine  speeches  which  she  perceived  he  would  be  glad  to 
make.  But,  as  has  been  intimated,  it  seemed  to  her  droll 
indeed  that  such  a  great  stalwart  fellow  should  appear  panic- 
stricken  in  her  diminutive  presence.  In  brief,  he  had  been 
timidity  embodied  under  her  demurely-mischievous  blue 
eyes ;  and  now  that  the  recruiting  officer  had  come  and 
marched  away  with  his  squad  without  him,  she  felt  incensed 
that  such  a  chicken-hearted  fellow  had  dared  to  lift  his  eyes 
to  her. 

"  It  would  go  hard  with  the  Widow  Jarvis  and  all  those 
children  if  Zeb  'listed,"  Susie's  mother  had  ventured  in  half 
hearted  defence,  for  did  she  not  look  upon  him  as  a  prom 
ising  suitor. 

"The  people  of  Opinquake  wouldn't  let  the  widow  or 
the  children  starve,"  replied  Susie,  indignantly.  "  If  I  was 
a  big  fellow  like  him,  my  country  would  not  call  me  twice. 
Think  how  grandfather  left  grandma  and  all  the  children  !  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  Zeb  thinks  he  has  his  hands  full,  wrastling 
with  that  stony  farm." 

"  He  need  n't  come  to  see  me  any  more,  or  steal  glances 
at  me  'tween  meetings  on  Sunday,"  said  the  girl,  decisively. 
"  He  cuts  a  sorry  figure  beside  Zeke  Watkins,  who  was  the 
first  to  give  in  his  name,  and  who  began  to  march  like  a 
soldier  even  before  he  left  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Rolliffe ;  "Zeke  was  very  forward.  If 
he  holds  out  as  he  begun  —  Well,  well,  Zeke  allus  was  a 
little  forward,  and  able  to  speak  for  himself.  You  are  young 
yet,  Susan,  and  may  learn  before  you  reach  my  years  that 
the  race  is  n't  allus  to  the  swift.  Don't  be  in  haste  to  prom 
ise  yourself  to  any  of  the  young  men." 


28O         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Little  danger  of  my  promising  myself  to  a  man  who  is 
afraid  even  of  me  !  I  want  a  husband  like  grandfather. 
He  was  n't  afraid  to  face  anything,  and  he  honored  his  wife 
by  acting  as  if  she  wasn't  afraid  either." 

Zeb  gave  Susie  no  chance  to  bestow  the  rebuffs  she  had 
premeditated.  He  had  been  down  to  witness  the  departure 
of  the  Opinquake  quota,  and  had  seen  Susie's  farewell  to 
Zeke  Watkins.  How  much  it  had  meant  he  was  not  sure,  — 
enough  to  leave  no  hope  or  chance  for  him,  he  had  believed  ; 
but  he  had  already  fought  his  first  battle,  and  it  had  been  a 
harder  one  than  Zeke  Watkins  or  any  of  his  comrades  would 
ever  engage  in.  He  had  returned  and  worked  on  the  stony 
farm  until  dark.  From  dawn  until  dark  he  continued  to 
work  every  secular  day  till  September. 

His  bronzed  face  grew  as  stern  as  it  was  thin ;  and  since 
he  would  no  longer  look  at  her,  Susie  Rolliffe  began  to 
steal  an  occasional  and  wondering  glance  at  him  "  'tween 
meetings." 

No  one  understood  the  young  man  or  knew  his  plans  ex 
cept  his  patient,  sad-eyed  mother,  and  she  learned  more  by 
her  intuitions  than  from  his  spoken  words.  She  idolized 
him,  and  he  loved  and  revered  her ;  but  the  terrible  Puri 
tan  restraint  paralyzed  manifestations  of  affection.  She  was 
not  taken  by  surprise  when  one  evening  he  said  quietly, 
"  Mother,  I  guess  I  '11  start  in  a  day  or  two." 

She  could  not  repress  a  sort  of  gasping  sob  however,  but 
after  a  few  moments  was  able  to  say  steadily,  "  I  supposed 
you  were  preparing  to  leave  us." 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  've  been  a-preparing.  I  've  done  my 
best  to  gather  in  everything  that  would  help  keep  you  and 
the  children  and  the  stock  through  the  winter.  The  corn  is 
all  shocked,  and  the  older  children  can  help  you  husk  it, 
and  gather  in  the  pumpkins,  the  beans,  and  the  rest.  As 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  28 1 

soon  as  I  finish  digging  the  potatoes  I  think  I  '11  feel  better 
to  be  in  the  lines  around  Boston.  I  'd  have  liked  to  have 
gone  at  first,  but  in  order  to  fight  as  I  ought  I  'd  want  to 
remember  there  was  plenty  to  keep  you  and  the  children." 

"  I  'm  afraid,  Zebulon,  you  Ve  been  fighting  as  well  as 
working  so  hard  all  summer  long.  For  my  sake  and  the 
children's,  you  Ve  been  letting  Susan  Rolliffe  think  meanly 
of  you." 

"  I  can't  help  what  she  thinks,  mother ;  I  Ve  tried  not  to 
act  meanly." 

"  Perhaps  the  God  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  will 
shield  and  bless  you,  my  son.  Be  that  as  it  may,"  she 
added  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "conscience  and  His  will  must 
guide  in  everything.  If  He  says  go  forth  to  battle,  what  am 
I  that  I  should  stay  you?  "  Although  she  did  not  dream  of 
the  truth,  the  Widow  Jarvis  was  a  disciplined  soldier  herself. 
To  her,  faith  meant  unquestioning  submission  and  obedi 
ence  ;  she  had  been  taught  to  revere  a  jealous  and  an  exact 
ing  God  rather  than  a  loving  one.  The  heroism  with  which 
she  pursued  her  toilsome,  narrow,  shadowed  pathway  was  as 
sublime  as  it  was  unrecognized  on  her  part.  After  she  had 
retired  she  wept  sorely,  not  only  because  her  eldest  child 
was  going  to  danger,  and  perhaps  death,  but  also  for  the 
reason  that  her  heart  clung  to  him  so  weakly  and  selfishly, 
as  she  believed.  With  a  tenderness  of  which  she  was  half- 
ashamed  she  filled  his  wallet  with  provisions  which  would 
add  to  his  comfort,  then,  both  to  his  surprise  and  her  own, 
kissed  him  good-by.  He  left  her  and  the  younger  brood 
with  an  aching  heart  of  which  there  was  little  outward  sign, 
and  with  no  loftier  ambition  than  to  do  his  duty ;  she  fol 
lowed  him  with  deep,  wistful  eyes  till  he,  and  next  the  long 
barrel  of  his  rifle,  disappeared  in  an  angle  of  the  road,  and 
then  her  interrupted  work  was  resumed. 


282          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Susie  Rollifie  was  returning  from  an  errand  to  a  neigh 
bor's  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  long  rapid  steps. 

A  hasty  glance  revealed  Zeb  in  something  like  pursuit. 
Her  heart  fluttered  slightly,  for  he  had  looked  so  stern  and 
sad  of  late  that  she  had  felt  a  little  sorry  for  him  in  spite  of 
herself.  But  since  he  could  "  wrastle  "  with  nothing  more 
formidable  than  a  stony  farm,  she  did  not  wish  to  have  any 
thing  to  say  to  him,  or  meet  the. embarrassment  of  explain 
ing  a  tacit  estrangement.  She  was  glad,  therefore,  that  her 
gate  was  so  near,  and  passed  in  as  if  she  had  not  recog 
nized  him.  She  heard  his  steps  become  slower  and  pause 
at  the  gate,  and  then  almost  in  shame  in  being  guilty 
of  too  marked  discourtesy,  she  turned  to  speak,  but  hes 
itated  in  surprise,  for  now  she  recognized  his  equipment 
as  a  soldier. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Jarvis,  where  are  you  going?  "  she  exclaimed. 

A  dull  red  flamed  through  the  bronze  of  his  thin  cheeks 
as  he  replied  awkwardly,  "  I  thought  I  'd  take  a  turn  in  the 
lines  around  Boston." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  mischievously,  "  take  a  turn  in  the 
lines.  Then  we  may  expect  you  back  by  corn-husking?  " 

He  was  deeply  wounded,  and  in  his  embarrassment  could 
think  of  no  other  reply  than  the  familiar  words,  "  '  Let  not 
him  that  girdeth  on  his  harness  boast  himself  as  he  that 
putteth  it  off.'  " 

"  I  can't  help  hoping,  Mr.  Jarvis,  that  neither  you  nor 
others  will  put  it  off  too  soon,  —  not,  at  least,  while  King 
George  claims  to  be  our  master.  When  we  're  free  I  can 
stand  any  amount  of  boasting." 

"  You  '11  never  hear  boasting  from  me,  Miss  Susie ;  "  and 
then  an  awkward  silence  fell  between  them. 

Shyly  and  swiftly  she  raised  her  eyes.  He  looked  so 
humble,  deprecatory,  and  unsoldierlike  that  she  could  not 


SUSIE   'ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  283 

repress  a  laugh.  "  I  'm  not  a  British  cannon,"  she  began, 
"  that  you  should  be  so  fearful." 

His  manhood  was  now  too  deeply  wounded  for  further 
endurance  even  from  her,  for  he  suddenly  straightened  him 
self,  and  throwing  his  rifle  over  his  shoulder,  said  sternly, 
"  I  'm  not  a  coward.  I  never1  hung  back  from  fear,  but  to 
keep  mother  from  charity,  so  I  could  fight  or  die  as  God 
wills.  You  may  laugh  at  the  man  who  never  gave  you  any 
thing  but  love,  if  you  will,  but  you  shall  never  laugh  at  my 
deeds.  Call  that  boasting  or  not  as  you  please,"  and  he 
turned  on  his  heel  to  depart. 

His  words  and  manner  almost  took  away  the  girl's  breath, 
so  unexpected  were  they,  and  unlike  her  idea  of  the  man. 
In  that  brief  moment  a  fearless  soldier  had  flashed  himself 
upon  her  consciousness,  revealing  a  spirit  that  would  flinch 
at  nothing,  —  that  had  not  even  quailed  at  the  necessity  of 
forfeiting  her  esteem,  that  his  mother  might  not  want.  Hu 
miliated  and  conscience-stricken  that  she  had  done  him  so 
much  injustice,  she  rushed  forward,  crying,  "  Stop,  Zebulon ; 
please  do  not  go  away  angry  with  me  !  I  do  not  forget 
that  we  have  been  old  friends  and  playmates.  I  'm  willing 
to  own  that  I  Ve  been  wrong  about  you,  and  that 's  a  good 
deal  for  a  girl  to  do.  I  only  wish  I  were  a  man,  and  I  'd 
go  with  you." 

Her  kindness  restored  him  to  his  awkward  self  again,  and 
he  stammered,  "  I  wish  you  were  —  no,  I  don't  —  I  merely 
stopped,  thinking  you  might  have  a  message  ;  but  I  'd  rather 
not  take  any  to  Zeke  Watkins,  —  will,  though,  if  you  wish. 
It  cut  me  all  up  to  have  you  think  I  was  afraid,"  and  then 
he  became  speechless. 

"  But  you  acted  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  me,  and  that 
seemed  so  ridiculous." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  so  earnestly  with  his  dark, 


284         TAKEN  ALIVE :   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

deep-set  eyes  that  hers  dropped.  "  Miss  Susie,"  he  said 
slowly,  and  speaking  with  difficulty,  "  I  am  afraid  of  you, 
next  to  God.  I  don't  suppose  I  've  any  right  to  talk  to 
you  so,  and  I  will  say  good-by.  I  was  reckless  when  I 
spoke  before.  Perhaps  —  you  '11  go  and  see  mother.  My 
going  is  hard  on  her." 

His  eyes  lingered  on  her  a  moment  longer,  as  if  he  were 
taking  his  last  look,  then  he  turned  slowly  away. 

"Good-by,  Zeb,"  she  called  softly.  "  I  didn't  —  I  don't 
understand.  Yes,  I  will  go  to  see  your  mother." 

Susie  also  watched  him  as  he  strode  away.  He  thought 
he  could  continue  on  steadfastly  without  looking  back,  but 
when  the  road  turned  he  also  turned,  fairly  tugged  right 
about  by  his  loyal  heart.  She  stood  where  he  had  left  her, 
and  promptly  waved  her  hand.  He  doffed  his  cap,  and 
remained  a  moment  in  an  attitude  that  appeared  to  her 
reverential,  then  passed  out  of  view. 

The  moments  lapsed,  and  still  she  stood  in  the  gateway, 
looking  down  the  vacant  road  as  if  dazed.  Was  it  in  truth 
awkward,  bashful  Zeb  Jarvis  who  had  just  left  her?  He 
seemed  a  new  and  distinct  being  in  contrast  to  the  youth 
whom  she  had  smiled  at  and  in  a  measure  scoffed  at.  The 
little  Puritan  maiden  was  not  a  reasoner,  but  a  creature  of 
impressions  and  swift  intuitions.  Zeb  had  not  set  his  teeth, 
faced  his  hard  duty,  and  toiled  that  long  summer  in  vain. 
He  had  developed  a  manhood  and  a  force  which  in  one 
brief  moment  had  enabled  him  to  compel  her  recognition. 

"  He  will  face  anything,"  she  murmured.  "  He  's  afraid 
of  only  God  and  me ;  what  a  strange  thing  to  say,  —  afraid 
of  me  next  to  God  !  Sounds  kind  of  wicked.  What  can 
he  mean  ?  Zeke  Watkins  was  n't  a  bit  afraid  of  me.  As 
mother  said,  he  was  a  little  forward,  and  I  was  fool  enough 
to  take  him  at  his  own  valuation.  Afraid  of  me  !  How  he 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  285 

stood  with  his  cap  off !  Do  men  ever  love  so  ?  Is  there  a 
kind  of  reverence  in  some  men's  love  ?  How  absurd  that  a 
great  strong,  brave  man,  ready  to  face  cannons,  can  bow 
down  to  such  a  little — "  Her  fragmentary  exclamations 
ended  in  a  peal  of  laughter,  but  tears  dimmed  her  blue 
eyes. 

Susie  did  visit  Mrs.  Jarvis,  and  although  the  reticent 
woman  said  little  about  her  son,  what  she  did  say  meant 
volumes  to  the  girl  who  now  had  the  right  clew  in  interpret 
ing  his  action  and  character.  She  too  was  reticent.  New- 
England  girls  rarely  gushed  in  those  days,  so  no  one  knew 
she  was  beginning  to  understand.  Her  eyes,  experienced 
in  country  work,  were  quick,  and  her  mind  active.  "  It 
looks  as  if  a  giant  had  been  wrestling  with  this  stony  farm," 
she  muttered. 

Zeb  received  no  ovations  on  his  lonely  tramp  to  the  lines, 
and  the  vision  of  Susie  Rolliffe  waving  her  hand  from  the 
gateway  would  have  blinded  him  to  all  the  bright  and  ad 
miring  eyes  in  the  world.  He  was  hospitably  entertained, 
however,  when  there  was  occasion ;  but  the  advent  of  men 
bound  for  the  army  had  become  an  old  story.  Having  at 
last  inquired  his  way  to  the  position  occupied  by  the  Con 
necticut  troops,  he  was  assigned  to  duty  in  the  same  com 
pany  with  Zeke  Watkins,  who  gave  him  but  a  cool  reception, 
and  sought  to  overawe  him  by  veteran-like  airs.  At  first 
poor  Zeb  was  awkward  enough  in  his  unaccustomed  duties, 
and  no  laugh  was  so  scornful  as  that  of  his  rival.  Young 
Jarvis,  however,  had  not  been  many  days  in  camp  before  he 
guessed  that  Zeke's  star  was  not  in  the  ascendant.  There 
was  but  little  fighting  required,  but  much  digging  of  in- 
trenchments,  drill,  and  monotonous  picket  duty.  Zeke  did 
not  take  kindly  to  such  tasks,  and  shirked  them  when  possi 
ble.  He  was  becoming  known  as  the  champion  grumbler 


286         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

in  the  mess,  and  no  one  escaped  his  criticism,  not  even 
"  Old  Put,"  —  as  General  Putnam,  who  commanded  the 
Connecticut  quota,  was  called.  Jarvis,  on  the  other  hand, 
performed  his  military  duties  as  he  had  worked  the  farm, 
and  rapidly  acquired  the  bearing  of  a  soldier.  Indomi 
table  Putnam  gave  his  men  little  rest,  and  was  ever  seek 
ing  to  draw  his  lines  nearer  to  Boston  and  the  enemy's 
ships.  He  virtually  fought  with  pick  and  shovel,  and  his 
working  parties  were  often  exposed  to  fire  while  engaged  in 
fortifying  the  positions  successively  occupied.  The  Opin- 
quake  boys  regarded  themselves  as  well  seasoned  to  such 
rude  compliments,  and  were  not  a  little  curious  to  see  how 
Zeb  would  handle  a  shovel  with  cannon-balls  whizzing  un 
comfortably  near.  The  opportunity  soon  came.  Old  Put 
himself  could  not  have  been  more  coolly  oblivious  than  the 
raw  recruit.  At  last  a  ball  smashed  his  shovel  to  smither 
eens  ;  he  quietly  procured  another  and  went  on  with  his 
work.  Then  his  former  neighbors  gave  him  a  cheer,  while 
his  captain  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  "  Pro 
mote  you  to  be  a  veteran  on  the  spot !  " 

The  days  had  grown  shorter,  colder,  and  drearier,  and 
the  discomforts  of  camp-life  harder  to  endure.  There  were 
few  tents  even  for  the  officers,  and  the  men  were  compelled 
to  improvise  such  shelter  as  circumstances  permitted.  Huts 
of  stone,  wood,  and  brush,  and  barricades  against  the  wind, 
lined  the  hillside,  and  the  region  already  was  denuded  of  al 
most  everything  that  would  burn.  Therefore,  when  Decem 
ber  came,  Zeke  Watkins  found  that  even  a  fire  was  a  luxury 
not  to  be  had  without  trouble.  He  had  become  thoroughly 
disgusted  with  a  soldier's  life,  and  the  military  glory  which 
had  at  first  so  dazzled  him  now  wore  the  aspect  of  the  win 
try  sky.  He  had  recently  sought  and  attained  the  only  pro 
motion  for  which  his  captain  now  deemed  him  fitted,  —  that 


SUSIE  ROLLIFF&S  CHRISTMAS.  287 

of  cook  for  about  a  dozen  of  his  comrades ;  and  the  close 
of  the  December  day  found  him  preparing  the  meagre  sup 
per  which  the  limited  rations  permitted.  By  virtue  of  his 
office,  Zeke  was  one  of  the  best-fed  men  in  the  army,  for  if 
there  were  any  choice  morsels  he  could  usually  manage  to 
secure  them ;  still,  he  was  not  happy.  King  George  and 
Congress  were  both  pursuing  policies  inconsistent  with  his 
comfort,  and  he  sighed  more  and  more  frequently  for  the 
wide  kitchen- hearth  of  his  home,  which  was  within  easy  vis 
iting  distance  of  the  Rolliffe  farm-house.  His  term  of  en 
listment  expired  soon,  and  he  was  already  counting  the 
days.  He  was  not  alone  in  his  discontent,  for  there  was 
much  homesickness  and  disaffection  among  the  Connecti 
cut  troops.  Many  had  already  departed,  unwilling  to  stay 
an  hour  after  the  expiration  of  their  terms  ;  and  not  a  few 
had  anticipated  the  periods  which  legally  released  them 
from  duty.  The  organization  of  the  army  was  so  loose 
that  neither  appeals  nor  threats  had  much  influence,  and 
Washington,  in  deep  solicitude,  saw  his  troops  melting 
away. 

It  was  dark  by  the  time  the  heavy  tramp  of  the  working 
party  was  heard  returning  from  the  fortifications.  The  great 
mess-pot,  partly  filled  with  pork  and  beans,  was  bubbling 
over  the  fire ;  Zeke,  shifting  his  position  from  time  to  time 
to  avoid  the  smoke  which  the  wind,  as  if  it  had  a  spite 
against  him,  blew  in  his  face,  was  sourly  contemplating  his 
charge  and  his  lot,  bent  on  grumbling  to  the  others  with 
even  greater  gusto  than  he  had  complained  to  himself.  His 
comrades  carefully  put  away  their  intrenching  tools,  for  they 
were  held  responsible  for  them,  and  then  gathered  about 
the  fire,  clamoring  for  supper. 

"Zeke,  you  lazy  loon,"  cried  Nat  Atkinson,  "  how  many 
pipes  have  you  smoked  to-day  ?  If  you  'd  smoke  less  and 


288          TAKEN  ALIVE :   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

forage  and  dun  the  commissary  more,  we  'd  have  a  littU 
fresh  meat  once  in  a  hundred  years." 

"  Yes,  just  about  once  in  a  hundred  years  1 "  snarled 
Zeke. 

"  You  find  something  to  keep  fat  on,  anyhow.  We '1 
broil  you  some  cold  night.  Trot  out  your  beans  if  there  'j 
nothing  else." 

"  Growl  away,"  retorted  Zeke.  "  'T  won't  be  long  before 
I  '11  be  eating  chickens  and  pumpkin- pie  in  Opinquake, 
instead  of  cooking  beans  and  rusty  pork  for  a  lot  of  hungry 
wolves." 

"  You  'd  be  the  hungriest  wolf  of  the  lot  if  you  'd  'a  '  been 
picking  and  shovelling  frozen  ground  all  day." 

"  I  did  n't  'list  to  be  a  ditch- digger  !  "  said  Zeke.  "  1 
thought  I  was  going  to  be  a  soldier." 

"And  you  turned  out  a  cook!"  quietly  remarked  Zet 
Jarvis. 

"Well,  my  hero  of  the  smashed  shovel,  what  do  you 
expect  to  be,  —  Old  Put's  successor  ?  You  know,  fellows, 
it 's  settled  that  you  're  to  dig  your  way  into  Boston,  tunnel 
under  the  water  when  you  come  to  it.  Of  course  Put  will 
die  of  old  age  before  you  get  half  there.  Zeb  '11  be  the  chap 
of  all  others  to  command  a  division  of  shovellers.  I  see  you 
with  a  pickaxe  strapped  on  your  side  instead  of  a  sword." 

"  Lucky  I  'm  not  in  command  now,"  replied  Zeb,  "  or 
you  'd  shovel  dirt  under  fire  to  the  last  hour  of  your  en 
listment.  I  'd  give  grumblers  like  you  something  to  grumble 
about.  See  here,  fellows,  I  'm  sick  of  this  seditious  talk  in 
our  mess.  The  Connecticut  men  are  getting  to  be  the  talk 
of  the  army.  You  heard  a  squad  of  New-Hampshire  boys 
jeer  at  us  to-day,  and  ask,  '  When  are  ye  going  home  to 
mother  ? '  You  ask,  Zeke  Watkins,  what  I  expect  to  be. 
I  expect  to  be  a  soldier,  and  obey  orders  as  long  as  Old  Put 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE' S  CHRISTMAS.  289 

and  General  Washington  want  a  man.  All  I  ask  is  to  be 
home  summers  long  enough  to  keep  mother  and  the  chil 
dren  off  the  town.  Now  what  do  you  expect  to  be  after 
you  give  up  your  cook's  ladle?" 

"  None  o'  your  business." 

"  He  's  going  home  to  court  Susie  Rolliffe,"  cried  Nat 
Atkinson.  "They  '11  be  married  in  the  spring,  and  go  into 
the  chicken  business.  That  'd  just  suit  Zeke." 

"  It  would  not  suit  Susie  Rolliffe,"  said  Zeb,  hotly.  "  A 
braver,  better  girl  does  n't  breathe  in  the  colonies,  and  the 
man  that  says  a  slurring  word  against  her 's  got  to  fight  me." 

"  What !  Has  she  given  Zeke  the  mitten  for  your  sake, 
Zeb?"  piped  little  Hiram  Woodbridge. 

"  She  has  n't  given  me  anything,  and  I  've  got  no  claim ; 
but  she  is  the  kind  of  girl  that  every  fellow  from  Opinquake 
should  stand  up  for.  We  all  know  that  there  is  nothing 
chicken  hearted  about  her." 

"  Right,  by  George,  —  George  W.,  I  mean,  and  not  the 
king,"  responded  Hiram  Woodbridge.  "  Here 's  to  her 
health,  Zeb,  and  your  success !  I  believe  she  'd  rather 
marry  a  soldier  than  a  cook." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Zeb.  "You  stand  as  good  a  chance 
as  I  do ;  but  don't  let 's  bandy  her  name  about  in  camp 
any  more  'n  we  would  our  mothers'.  The  thing  for  us  to 
do  now  is  to  show  that  the  men  from  Connecticut  have  as 
much  backbone  as  any  other  fellows  in  the  army,  North  or 
South.  Zeke  may  laugh  at  Old  Put's  digging,  but  you  '11 
soon  find  that  he  '11  pick  his  way  to  a  point  where  he  can 
give  the  Britishers  a  dig  under  the  fifth  rib.  We  've  got 
the  best  general  in  the  army.  Washington,  with  all  his 
Southern  style,  believes  in  him  and  relies  on  him.  Whether 
their  time  's  up  or  not,  it 's  a  burning  shame  that  so  many 
of  his  troops  are  sneaking  off  home." 

19 


2QO         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  It 's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  Zeb  Jarvis,"  growled 
Zeke.  "  You  have  n't  been  here  very  long  yet ;  and  you 
stayed  at  home  when  others  started  out  to  fight.  Now  that 
you  Ve  found  that  digging  and  not  fighting  is  the  order  of 
the  day,  you  're  just  suited.  It 's  the  line  of  soldiering  )'ou 
are  cut  out  for.  When  fighting  men  and  not  ditch-diggers 
are  wanted,  you  '11  find  me  —  " 

"All  right,  Watkins,"  said  the  voice  of  Captain  Dean 
from  without  the  circle  of  light.  "According  to  your  own 
story  you  are  just  the  kind  of  man  needed  to-night,  —  no 
ditch-digging  on  hand,  but  dangerous  service.  I  detail  you, 
for  you  Ve  had  rest  compared  with  the  other  men.  I  ask 
for  volunteers  from  those  who  've  been  at  work  all  day." 

Zeb  Jarvis  was  on  his  feet  instantly,  and  old  Ezra  Stokes 
also  began  to  rise  with  difficulty.  "  No,  Stokes,"  resumed 
the  officer,  "  you  can't  go.  I  know  you  Ve  suffered  with 
the  rheumatism  all  day,  and  have  worked  well  in  spite  of  it. 
For  to-night's  work  I  want  young  fellows  with  good  legs 
and  your  spirit.  How  is  it  you  're  here  anyhow,  Stokes  ? 
Your  time  's  up." 

"  We  ain't  into  Boston  yet,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 
"  So  you  want  to  stay?  " 
"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  you  shall  cook  for  the  men  till  you  "re  better. 
I  won't  keep  so  good  a  soldier,  though,  at  such  work  any 
longer  than  I  can  help.  Your  good  example  and  that  of 
the  gallant  Watkins  has  brought  out  the  whole  squad.  I 
think  I  '11  put  Jarvis  in  command,  though ;  Zeke  might  be 
rash,  and  attempt  the  capture  of  Boston  before  morning;  " 
and  the  facetious  captain,  who  had  once  been  a  neighbor, 
concluded,  "  Jarvis,  see  that  every  man's  piece  is  primed 
and  ready  for  use.  Be  at  my  hut  in  fifteen  minutes." 
Then  he  passed  on  to  the  other  camp-fires. 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S   CHRISTMAS.  2QI 

In  a  few  minutes  Ezra  Stokes  was  alone  by  the  fire, 
almost  roasting  his  lame  leg,  and  grumbling  from  pain  and 
the  necessity  of  enforced  inaction.  He  was  a  taciturn, 
middle-aged  man,  and  had  been  the  only  bachelor  of  mature 
years  in  Opinquake.  Although  he  rarely  said  much,  he 
had  been  a  great  listener,  and  no  one  had  been  better 
versed  in  neighborhood  affairs.  In  brief,  he  had  been  the 
village  cobbler,  and  had  not  only  taken  the  measure  of 
Susie  Rolliffe's  little  foot,  but  also  of  her  spirit.  Like  her 
self  he  had  been  misled  at  first  by  the  forwardness  of  Zeke 
Watkins  and  the  apparent  backwardness  of  Jarvis.  Actual 
service  had  changed  his  views  very  decidedly.  When  Zeb 
appeared  he  had  watched  the  course  of  this  bashful  suitor 
with  interest  which  had  rapidly  ripened  into  warm  but 
undemonstrative  good-will.  The  young  fellow  had  taken 
pains  to  relieve  the  older  man,  had  carried  his  tools  for 
him,  and  more  than  once  with  his  strong  hands  had  almost 
rubbed  the  rheumatism  out  of  the  indomitable  cobbler's 
leg.  He  had  received  but  slight  thanks,  and  had  acted 
as  if  he  did  n't  care  for  any.  Stokes  was  not  a  man  to 
return  favors  in  words ;  he  brooded  over  his  gratitude  as 
if  it  were  a  grudge.  "  I  '11  get  even  with  that  young  Jarvis 
yet,"  he  muttered,  as  he  nursed  his  leg  over  the  fire.  "  I 
know  he  worships  the  ground  that  little  Rolliffe  girl  treads 
on,  though  she  don't  tread  on  much  at  a  time.  She  never 
trod  on  me  nuther,  though  I  Ve  had  her  foot  in  my  hand 
more  'n  once.  She  looked  at  the  man  that  made  her  shoes 
as  if  she  would  like  to  make  him  happier.  When  a  little 
tot,  she  used  to  say  I  could  come  and  live  with  her  when 
I  got  too  old  to  take  care  of  myself.  Lame  as  I  be,  I  'd 
walk  to  Opinquake  to  give  her  a  hint  in  her  choosin'. 
Guess  Hi  Woodbridge  is  right,  and  she  would  n't  be  long 
in  making  up  her  mind  betwixt  a  soger  and  a  cook,  —  a 


TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

mighty  poor  one  at  that.  Somehow  or  nuther  I  must  let 
her  know  before  Zeke  Watkins  sneaks  home  and  parades 
around  as  a  soldier  'bove  ditch-digging.  I  Ve  taken  his 
measure. 

"  He  '11  be  putting  on  veteran  airs,  telling  big  stories  of 
what  he  's  going  to  do  when  soldiers  are  wanted,  and  dril 
ling  such  fools  as  believe  in  him.  Young  gals  are  often 
taken  by  such  strutters,  and  think  that  men  like  Jarvis  who 
dars  n't  speak  for  themselves  are  of  no  account.  But  I  '11 
put  a  spoke  in  Zeke's  wheel,  if  I  have  to  get  the  captain 
to  write." 

It  thus  may  be  gathered  that  the  cobbler  had  much  to 
say  to  himself  when  alone,  though  so  taciturn  to  others. 

The  clouds  along  the  eastern  horizon  were  stained  with 
red  before  the  reconnoitring  party  returned.  Stokes  had 
managed,  by  hobbling  about,  to  keep  up  the  fire  and  to  fill 
the  mess-kettle  with  the  inevitable  pork  and  beans.  The 
hungry,  weary  men  therefore  gave  their  new  cook  a  cheer 
when  they  saw  the  good  fire  and  provision  awaiting  them. 
A  moment  later,  however,  Jarvis  observed  how  lame  Stokes 
had  become ;  he  took  the  cobbler  by  the  shoulder  and  sat 
him  down  in  the  warmest  nook,  saying,  "  I  '11  be  assistant 
cook  until  you  are  better.  As  Zeke  says,  I  'm  a  wolf  sure 
enough ;  but  as  soon 's  the  beast's  hunger  is  satisfied,  I  '11 
rub  that  leg  of  yours  till  you  '11  want  to  dance  a  jig  ;  "  and 
with  the  ladle  wrung  from  Stokes's  reluctant  hand,  he  began 
stirring  the  seething  contents  of  the  kettle. 

Then  little  Hi  Woodbridge  piped  in  his  shrill  voice, 
"  Another  cheer  for  our  assistant  cook  and  ditch-digger  ! 
I  say,  Zeke,  would  n't  you  like  to  tell  Ezra  that  Zeb  has 
showed  himself  fit  for  something  more  than  digging?  You 
expressed  your  opinion  very  plain  last  night,  and  may  have 
a  different  one  now." 


SUSIE'S  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  293 

Zeke  growled  something  inaudible,  and  stalked  to  his  hut 
in  order  to  put  away  his  equipments. 

"I'm  cook-in-chief  yet,"  Stokes  declared;  "and  not 
a  bean  will  any  one  of  you  get  till  you  report  all  that 
happened." 

"  Well,"  piped  Hi,  "  you  may  stick  a  feather  in  your  old 
cap,  Ezra,  for  our  Opinquake  lad  captured  a  British  offi 
cer  last  night,  and  Old  Put  is  pumping  him  this  blessed 
minute." 

"  Well,  well,  that  is  news.  It  must  have  been  Zeke  who 
did  that  neat  job,"  exclaimed  Stokes,  ironically;  "he's 
been  a-pining  for  the  soldier  business." 

"  No,  no ;  Zeke 's  above  such  night  scrimmages.  He 
wants  to  swim  the  bay  and  walk  right  into  Boston  in  broad 
daylight,  so  everybody  can  see  him.  Come,  Zeb,  tell  how 
it  happened.  It  was  so  confounded  dark,  no  one  can  tell 
but  you." 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell  that  you  fellows  don't  know," 
was  Zeb's  laconic  answer.  "  We  had  sneaked  down  on  the 
neck  so  close  to  the  enemy's  lines  — 

"  Yes,  yes,  Zeb  Jarvis,"  interrupted  Stokes,  "  that 's  the 
kind  of  sneaking  you  're  up  to,  —  close  to  the  enemy's  lines. 
Go  on." 

"  Well,  I  crawled  up  so  close  that  I  saw  a  Britisher  going 
the  round  of  the  sentinels,  and  I  pounced  on  him  and 
brought  him  out  on  the  run,  that 's  all." 

"Oho!  you  both  ran  away,  then?  That  wasn't  good 
soldiering  either,  was  it,  Zeke?"  commented  Stokes,  in  his 
dry  way. 

"  It 's  pretty  good  soldiering  to  stand  fire  within  an  inch 
of  your  nose,"  resumed  Hi,  who  had  become  a  loyal  friend 
and  adherent  of  his  tall  comrade.  "  Zeb  was  so  close  on 
the  Britisher  when  he  fired  his  pistol  that  we  saw  the  faces 


294  TAKEN  ALIVE     AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

of  both  in  the  flash ;  and  a  lot  of  bullets  sung  after  us,  I 
can  tell  you,  as  we  dusted  out  of  those  diggin's." 

"Compliments  of  General  Putnam  to  Sergeant  Zebulon 
Jarvis,"  said  an  orderly,  riding  out  of  the  dim  twilight  of 
the  morning.  "  The  general  requests  your  presence  at 
headquarters." 

"Sergeant !  promoted  !  Another  cheer  for  Zeb  !  "  and 
the  Opinquake  boys  gave  it  with  hearty  good-will. 

"  Jerusalem,  fellows  !  I  'd  like  to  have  a  chance  at  those 
beans  before  I  go  !  "  but  Zeb  promptly  tramped  off  with 
the  orderly. 

When  he  returned  he  was  subjected  to  a  fire  of  questions 
by  the  two  or  three  men  still  awake,  but  all  they  could  get 
out  of  him  was  that  he  had  been  given  a  good  breakfast. 
From  Captain  Dean,  who  was  with  the  general  at  the  time 
of  the  examination,  it  leaked  out  that  Zeb  was  in  the  line 
of  promotion  to  a  rank  higher  than  that  of  sergeant. 

The  next  few  days  passed  uneventfully ;  and  Zeke  was 
compelled  to  resume  the  pick  and  shovel  again.  Stokes 
did  his  best  to  fulfil  his  duties,  but  it  had  become  evident 
to  all  that  the  exposure  of  camp  would  soon  disable  him 
utterly.  Jarvis  and  Captain  Dean  persuaded  him  to  go 
home  for  the  winter,  and  the  little  squad  raised  a  sum  which 
enabled  him  to  make  the  journey  in  a  stage.  Zeke,  sullen 
toward  his  jeering  comrades,  but  immensely  elated  in  secret, 
had  shaken  the  dust  —  snow  and  slush  rather  —  of  camp- 
life  from  his  feet  the  day  before.  He  had  the  grace  to 
wait  till  the  time  of  his  enlistment  expired,  and  that  was 
more  than  could  be  said  of  many. 

It  spoke  well  for  the  little  Opinquake  quota  that  only  two 
others  besides  Zeke  availed  themselves  of  their  liberty. 
Poor  Stokes  was  almost  forced  away,  consoled  by  the  hope 
of  returning  in  the  spring.  Zeb  was  sore-hearted  on  the 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE' S  CHRISTMAS.  295 

day  of  Zeke's  departure.  His  heart  was  in  the  Connecticut 
Valley  also.  No  message  had  come  to  him  from  Susie 
Rolliffe.  Those  were  not  the  days  of  swift  and  frequent 
communication.  Even  Mrs.  Jarvis  had  written  but  seldom, 
and  her  missives  were  brief.  Mother-love  glowed  through 
the  few  quaint  and  scriptural  phrases  like  heat  in  anthracite 
coals.  All  that  poor  Zeb  could  learn  from  .them  was  that 
Susie  Rolliffe  had  kept  her  word  and  had  been  to  the  farm 
more  than  once ;  but  the  girl  had  been  as  reticent  as  the 
mother.  Zeke  was  now  on  his  way  home  to  prosecute  his 
suit  in  person,  and  Zeb  well  knew  how  forward  and  plaus 
ible  he  could  be.  There  was  no  deed  of  daring  that  he 
would  not  promise  to  perform  after  spring  opened,  and  Zeb 
reasoned  gloomily  that  a  present  lover,  impassioned  and 
importunate,  would  stand  a  better  chance  than  an  absent 
one  who  had  never  been  able  to  speak  for  himself. 

When  it  was  settled  that  Stokes  should  return  to  Opin- 
quake,  Zeb  determined  that  he  would  not  give  up  the  prize 
to  Zeke  without  one  decisive  effort ;  and  as  he  was  rubbing 
the  cobbler's  leg,  he  stammered,  "  I  say,  Ezra,  will  you  do 
me  a  turn  ?  'T  won't  be  so  much,  what  I  ask,  except  that 
I  '11  like  you  to  keep  mum  about  it,  and  you  're  a  good 
hand  at  keeping  mum." 

"  I  know  what  yer  driving  at,  Zeb.  Write  yer  letter  and 
I  '11  deliver  it  with  my  own  hands." 

"  Well,  now  I  'm  satisfied,  I  can  stay  on  and  fight  it  out 
with  a  clear  mind.  When  Zeke  marched  away  last  summer, 
I  thought  it  was  all  up  with  me ;  and  I  can  tell  you  that 
any  fighting  that 's  to  do  about  Boston  will  be  fun  compared 
with  the  fighting  I  did  while  hoeing  corn  and  mowing  grass. 
But  I  don't  believe  that  Susie  Rolliffe  is  promised  to  Zeke 
Watkins,  or  any  one  else  yet,  and  I  'm  going  to  give  her  a 
chance  to  refuse  me  plump." 


296         TAKEN  ALIl^E:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"That 's  the  way  to  do  it,  Zeb,"  said  the  bachelor  cob 
bler,  with  an  emphasis  that  would  indicate  much  successful 
experience.  "  Asking  a  girl  plump  is  like  standing  up  in  a 
fair  fight.  It  gives  the  girl  a  chance  to  bowl  you  over,  if 
that 's  her  mind,  so  there  can't  be  any  mistake  about  it ; 
and  it  seems  to  me  the  women-folks  ought  to  have  all  the 
chances  that  in  any  way  belong  to  them.  They  have  got 
few  enough  anyhow." 

"And  you  think  it '11  end  in  my  being  bowled  over  ? " 

"  How  should  I  know,  or  you  either,  unless  you  make  a 
square  trial  ?  You  're  such  a  strapping,  fighting  feller  that 
nothing  but  a  cannon-ball  or  a  woman  ever  will  knock  you 
off  your  pins." 

"  See  here,  Ezra  Stokes,  the  girl  of  my  heart  may  refuse 
me  just  as  plump  as  I  offer  myself;  and  if  that 's  her  mind 
she  has  a  right  to  do  it.  But  I  don't  want  either  you  or 
her  to  think  I  won't  stand  on  my  feet.  I  won't  even  fight 
any  more  recklessly  than  my  duty  requires.  I  have  a 
mother  to  take  care  of,  even  if  I  never  have  a  wife." 

"  I  '11  put  in  a  few  pegs  right  along  to  keep  in  mind  what 
you  say ;  and  I  '11  give  you  a  fair  show  by  seeing  to  it  that 
the  girl  gets  your  letter  before  Zeke  can  steal  a  march 
on  you." 

"  That 's  all  I  ask,"  said  Zeb,  with  compressed  lips. 
"  She  shall  choose  between  us.  It 's  hard  enough  to  write, 
but  it  will  be  a  sight  easier  than  facing  her.  Not  a  word 
of  this  to  another  soul,  Ezra ;  but  I  'm  not  going  to  use  you 
like  a  mail-carrier,  but  a  friend.  After  all,  there  are  few  in 
Opinquake,  I  suppose,  but  know  I  'd  give  my  eyes  for  her, 
so  there  isn't  much  use  of  my  putting  on  secret  airs." 

"  I  'm  not  a  talker,  and  you  might  have  sent  your  letter 
by  a  worse  messenger  'n  me,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

Zeb  had  never  written  a  love-letter,  and  was  at  a  loss  how 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  297 

to  begin  or  end  it.     But  time  pressed,  and   he   had   to  say 
what  was  uppermost  in  his  mind.     It  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  write  so  as  to  give  my  words  weight. 
I  cannot  come  home ;  I  will  not  come  as  long  as  mother  and 
the  children  can  get  on  without  me.  And  men  are  needed  here  ; 
men  are  needed.  The  general  fairly  pleads  with  the  soldiers 
to  stay.  Stokes  would  stay  if  he  could.  We  're  almost  driving 
him  home.  I  know  you  will  be  kind  to  him,  and  remember  he 
has  few  to  care  for  him.  I  cannot  speak  for  myself  in  person 
very  soon,  if  ever.  Perhaps  I  could  not  if  I  stood  before  you. 
You  laugh  at  me ;  but  if  you  knew  how  I  love  you  and  remember 
you,  how  I  honor  and  almost  worship  you  in  my  heart,  you 
might  understand  me  better.  Why  is  it  strange  I  should  be 
afraid  of  you  ?  Only  God  has  more  power  over  me  than  you. 
Will  you  be  my  wife  ?  I  will  do  anything  to  win  you  that  you 
can  ask.  Others  will  plead  with  you  in  person.  Will  you  let 
this  letter  plead  for  the  absent  ?  " 

Zeb  went  to  the  captain's  quarters  and  got  some  wax 
with  which  to  seal  this  appeal,  then  saw  Stokes  depart  with 
the  feeling  that  his  destiny  was  now  at  stake. 

Meanwhile  Zeke  Watkins,  with  a  squad  of  homeward- 
bound  soldiers,  was  trudging  toward  Opinquake.  They 
soon  began  to  look  into  one  another's  faces  in  something 
like  dismay.  But  little  provision  was  in  their  wallets  when 
they  had  started,  for  there  was  little  to  draw  upon,  and  that 
furnished  grudgingly,  as  may  well  be  supposed.  Zeke  had 
not  cared.  He  remembered  the  continuous  feasting  that 
had  attended  his  journey  to  camp,  and  supposed  that  he 
would  only  have  to  present  himself  to  the  roadside  farm 
houses  in  order  to  enjoy  the  fat  of  the  land.  This  hospi 
tality  he  proposed  to  repay  abundantly  by  camp  reminis 
cences  in  which  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  insinuate  that 
the  hero  of  the  scene  was  present. 

In  contrast  to  these  rose-hued  expectations,  doors  were 


298          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

sla'nmed  in  their  faces,  and  they  were  treated  little  better 
than  tramps.  "  I  suppose  the  people  near  Boston  have 
been  called  on  too  often  and  imposed  on  too,"  Zeke  rea 
soned  rather  ruefully.  "  When  we  once  get  over  the  Con 
necticut  border  we  '11  begin  to  find  ourselves  at  home ;  " 
and  spurred  by  hunger  and  cold,  as  well  as  hope,  they 
pushed  on  desperately,  subsisting  on  such  coarse  provisions 
as  they  could  obtain,  sleeping  in  barns  when  it  stormed, 
and  not  infrequently  by  a  fire  in  the  woods.  At  last  they 
passed  the  Connecticut  border,  and  led  by  Zeke  they  urged 
their  way  to  a  large  farm-house,  at  which,  but  a  few  months 
before,  the  table  had  groaned  under  rustic  dainties,  and 
feather-beds  had  luxuriously  received  the  weary  recruits 
bound  to  the  front.  They  approached  the  opulent  farm  in 
the  dreary  dark  of  the  evening,  and  pursued  by  a  biting 
east  wind  laden  with  snow.  Not  only  the  weather,  but  the 
very  dogs  seemed  to  have  a  spite  against  them ;  and  the 
family  had  to  rush  out  to  call  them  off. 

"  Weary  soldiers  ask  for  shelter,"  began  Zeke. 

"  Of  course  you  're  bound  for  the  lines,"  said  the  mat 
ronly  housewife.  "Come  in." 

Zeke  thought  they  would  better  enter  at  once,  before  ex 
plaining  ;  and  truly  the  large  kitchen,  with  a  great  fire  blaz 
ing  on  the  hearth,  seemed  like  heaven.  The  door  leading 
into  the  family  sitting-room  was  open,  and  there  was  another 
fire,  with  the  red-cheeked  girls  and  the  white-haired  grand- 
sire  before  it,  their  eyes  turned  expectantly  toward  the  new 
comers.  Instead  of  hearty  welcome,  there  was  a  question 
ing  look  on  every  face,  even  on  that  of  the  kitchen-maid. 
Zeke's  four  companions  had  a  sort  of  hang-dog  look,  —  for 
they  had  been  cowed  by  the  treatment  received  along 
the  road ;  but  he  tried  to  bear  himself  confidently,  and  be 
gan  with  an  insinuating  smile,  "  Perhaps  I  should  hardly 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  299 

expect  you  to  remember  me.  I  passed  this  way  last 
summer  — 

"  Passed  this  way  last  summer  ?  "  repeated  the  matron, 
her  face  growing  stern.  "  We  who  cannot  fight  are  ready 
and  glad  to  share  all  we  have  with  those  who  fight  for  us. 
Since  you  carry  arms  we  might  very  justly  think  you  are 
hastening  forward  to  use  them." 

"  These  are  our  own  arms ;  we  furnished  them  ourselves," 
Zeke  hastened  to  say. 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  replied  the  matron,  coldly  ;  "  I  supposed 
that  not  only  the  weapons,  but  the  ones  who  carry  them, 
belonged  to  the  country.  I  hope  you  are  not  deserting 
from  the  army." 

"  I  assure  you  we  are  not.  Our  terms  of  enlistment 
have  expired." 

"  And  your  country's  need  was  over  at  the  same  moment  ? 
Are  you  hastening  home  at  this  season  to  plough  and  sow 
and  reap?" 

"  Well,  madam,  after  being  away  so  long  we  felt  like 
having  a  little  comfort  and  seeing  the  folks.  We  stayed  as 
long  as  we  agreed.  When  spring  opens,  or  before,  if 
need  be  —  " 

"  Pardon  me,  sir ;  the  need  is  now.  The  country  is  not 
to  be  saved  by  men  who  make  bargains  like  day-laborers, 
and  who  quit  when  the  hour  is  up,  but  by  soldiers  who  give 
themselves  to  their  country  as  they  would  to  their  wives  and 
sweethearts.  My  husband  and  sons  are  in  the  army  you 
have  deserted.  General  Washington  has  written  to  our 
governor  asking  whether  an  example  should  not  be  made 
of  the  men  who  have  deserted  the  cause  of  their  country  at 
this  critical  time  when  the  enemy  are  receiving  re-enforce 
ments.  We  are  told  that  Connecticut  men  have  brought 
disgrace  on  our  colony  and  have  imperilled  the  whole 


300          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

army.  You  feel  like  taking  comfort  and  seeing  the  folks. 
The  folks  do  not  feel  like  seeing  you.  My  husband  and 
the  brave  men  in  the  lines  are  in  all  the  more  danger  be 
cause  of  your  desertion,  for  a  soldier's  time  never  expires 
when  the  enemy  is  growing  stronger  and  threatening  every 
home  in  the  land.  If  all  followed  your  example,  the  British 
would  soon  be  upon  your  heels,  taking  from  us  our  honor 
and  our  all.  We  are  not  ignorant  of  the  critical  condition 
of  our  army ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  sir,  that  if  many  more  of 
our  men  come  home,  the  women  will  take  their  places." 

Zeke's  companions  succumbed  to  the  stern  arraignment, 
and  after  a  brief  whispered  consultation  one  spoke  for  the 
rest.  "Madam,"  he  said,  "you  put  it  in  a  way  that  we 
had  n't  realized  before.  We  '11  right-about-face  and  march 
back  in  the  morning,  for  we  feel  that  we  'd  rather  face 
all  the  British  in  Boston  than  any  more  Connecticut 
women." 

"  Then,  sirs,  you  shall  have  supper  and  shelter  and  wel 
come,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

Zeke  assumed  an  air  of  importance  as  he  said,  "  There 
are  reasons  why  I  must  be  at  home  for  a  time,  but  I  not 
only  expect  to  return,  but  also  to  take  many  back  with  me." 

"  I  trust  your  deeds  may  prove  as  large  as  your  words," 
was  the  chilly  reply ;  and  then  he  was  made  to  feel  that  he 
was  barely  tolerated.  Some  hints  from  his  old  associates 
added  to  the  disfavor  which  the  family  took  but  little  pains 
to  conceal.  There  was  a  large  vein  of  selfish  calculation 
in  Zeke's  nature,  and  he  was  not  to  be  swept  away  by  any 
impulses.  He  believed  he  could  have  a  prolonged  visit 
home,  yet  manage  so  admirably  that  when  he  returned  he 
would  be  followed  by  a  squad  of  recruits,  and  chief  of  all 
he  would  be  the  triumphant  suitor  of  Susie  Rolliffe.  Her 
manner  in  parting  had  satisfied  him  that  he  had  made  so 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  301 

deep  an  impression  that  it  would  be  folly  not  to  follow  it 
up.  He  trudged  the  remainder  of  the  journey  alone,  and 
secured  tolerable  treatment  by  assuring  the  people  that  he 
was  returning  for  recruits  for  the  army.  He  reached  home 
in  the  afternoon  of  Christmas ;  and  although  the  day  was 
almost  completely  ignored  in  the  Puritan  household,  yet 
Mrs.  Watkins  forgot  country,  Popery,  and  all,  in  her  mother- 
love,  and  Zeke  supped  on  the  finest  turkey  of  the  flock. 
Old  Mr.  Watkins,  it  is  true,  looked  rather  grim,  but  the 
reception  had  been  reassuring  in  the  main ;  and  Zeke  had 
resolved  on  a  line  of  tactics  which  would  make  him,  as  he 
believed,  the  military  hero  of  the  town.  After  he  had  satis 
fied  an  appetite  which  had  been  growing  ever  since  he  left 
camp,  he  started  to  call  on  Susie  in  all  the  bravery  of  his 
best  attire,  filled  with  sanguine  expectations  inspired  by 
memories  of  the  past  and  recent  potations  of  cider. 

Meanwhile  Susie  had  received  a  guest  earlier  in  the  day. 
The  stage  had  stopped  at  the  gate  where  she  had  stood  in 
the  September  sunshine  and  waved  her  bewildered  farewell 
to  Zeb.  There  was  no  bewilderment  or  surprise  now  at  her 
strange  and  unwonted  sensations.  She  had  learned  why  she 
had  stood  looking  after  him  dazed  and  spellbound.  Under 
the  magic  of  her  own  light  irony  she  had  seen  her  drooping 
rustic  lover  transformed  into  the  ideal  man  who  could  face 
anything  except  her  unkindness.  She  had  guessed  the  deep 
secret  of  his  timidity.  It  was  a  kind  of  fear  of  which  she 
had  not  dreamed,  and  which  touched  her  innermost  soul. 

When  the  stage  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  she  saw  the 
driver  helping  out  Ezra  Stokes,  a  swift  presentiment  made 
her  sure  that  she  would  hear  from  one  soldier  who  was 
more  to  her  than  all  the  generals.  She  was  soon  down  the 
walk,  the  wind  sporting  in  her  light-gold  hair,  supporting 
the  cobbler  on  the  other  side. 


302          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Susie  !  "  he  said,  "  I  am  about  worn  out,  sole 
and  upper.  It  breaks  my  heart,  when  men  are  so  sorely 
needed,  to  be  thrown  aside  like  an  old  shoe." 

The  girl  soothed  and  comforted  him,  ensconced  him  by 
the  fireside,  banishing  the  chill  from  his  heart,  while  Mrs. 
Rolliffe  warmed  his  blood  by  a  strong,  hot  drink.  Then 
the  mother  hastened  away  to  get  dinner,  while  Susie  sat 
down  near,  nervously  twisting  and  untwisting  her  fingers, 
with  questions  on  her  lips  which  she  dared  not  utter,  but 
which  brought  blushes  to  her  cheeks.  Stokes  looked  at 
her  and  sighed  over  his  lost  youth,  yet  smiled  as  he 
thought,  "  Guess  I  '11  get  even  with  that  Zeb  Jarvis  to-day." 
Then  he  asked,  "  Is  n't  there  any  one  you  would  like  to 
hear  about  in  camp?" 

She  blushed  deeper  still,  and  named  every  one  who  had 
gone  from  Opinquake  except  Zeb.  At  last  she  said  a  little 
ironically,  "  I  suppose  Ezekiel  Watkins  is  almost  thinking 
about  being  a  general  about  this  time?" 

"  Has  n't  he  been  here  telling  you  what  he  is  thinking 
about?" 

"  Been  here !  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  has  come 
home?" 

"  He  surely  started  for  home.  All  the  generals  and  a 
yoke  of  oxen  could  n't  'a'  kept  him  in  camp,  he  was  so 
homesick,  —  lovesick  too,  I  guess.  Powerful  compliment  to 
you,  Miss  Susie,"  added  the  politic  cobbler,  feeling  his  way, 
"  that  you  could  draw  a  man  straight  from  his  duty  like 
one  of  these  'ere  stump-extractors." 

"  No  compliment  to  me  at  all !  "  cried  the  girl,  indig 
nantly.  "  He  little  understands  me  who  seeks  my  favor 
by  coming  home  at  a  time  like  this.  The  Connecticut 
women  are  up  in  arms  at  the  way  our  men  are  coming 
home.  No  offence  to  you,  Mr.  Stokes.  You  're  sick,  and 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  303 

should  come ;  but  I  'd  like  to  go  myself  to  show  some  of 
the  strong  young  fellows  what  we  think  of  them." 

"  Coming  home  was  worse  than  rheumatism  to  me, 
and  I  'm  going  back  soon  's  I  kin  walk  without  a  cane. 
Would  n't  'a'  come  as  't  is,  if  that  Zeb  Jarvis  had  n't  jes' 
packed  me  off.  By  Jocks !  I  thought  you  and  he  was 
acquainted,  but  you  don't  seem  to  ask  arter  him." 

"  I  felt  sure  he  would  try  —  I  heard  he  was  doing  his 
duty,"  she  replied  with  averted  face. 

"  Zeke  Watkins  says  he  's  no  soldier  at  all,  —  nothing  but 
a  dirt-digger." 

For  a  moment,  as  the  cobbler  had  hoped,  Susie  forgot 
her  blushes  and  secret  in  her  indignation.  "  Zeke  Wat- 
kins  indeed  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  He  'd  better  not  tell  me 
any  such  story.  I  don't  believe  there 's  a  braver,  truer 
man  in  the—  Well,"  she  added  in  sudden  confusion, 
"  he  has  n't  run  away  and  left  others  to  dig  their  way  into 
Boston,  if  that 's  the  best  way  of  getting  there." 

"Ah,  I'm  going  to  get  even  with  him  yet,"  chuckled 
Stokes  to  himself.  "  Digging  is  only  the  first  step,  Miss 
Susie.  When  Old  Put  gets  good  and  ready,  you  '11  hear 
the  thunder  of  the  guns  a'most  in  Opinquake." 

"Well,  Mr.  Stokes,"  stammered  Susie,  resolving  despe 
rately  on  a  short  cut  to  the  knowledge  she  craved,  "  you  Ve 
seen  Mr.  Jarvis  a-soldiering.  What  do  you  think  about 
it?" 

"  Well,  now,  that  Zeb  Jarvis  is  the  sneakin'ist  fellow —  " 

"What?"  cried  the  girl,  her  face  aflame. 

"  Wait  till  I  get  in  a  few  more  pegs,"  continued  Stokes, 
coolly.  "  The  other  night  he  sneaked  right  into  the  ene 
my's  lines  and  carried  off  a  British  officer  as  a  hawk  takes 
a  chicken.  The  Britisher  fired  his  pistol  right  under  Zeb's 
nose  ;  but,  law  !  he  did  n't  mind  that  any  more  'n  a  'sketer- 


304          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

bite.  I  call  that  soldiering,  don't  you?  Anyhow,  Old 
Put  thought  it  was,  and  sent  for  him  'fore  daylight,  and 
made  a  sergeant  of  him.  If  I  had  as  good  a  chance  of 
gettin'  rid  of  the  rheumatiz  as  he  has  of  bein'  captain  in 
six  months,  I  'd  thank  the  Lord." 

Susie  sat  up  very  straight,  and  tried  to  look  severely 
judicial ;  but  her  lip  was  quivering  and  her  whole  plump 
little  form  trembling  with  excitement  and  emotion.  Sud 
denly  she  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried  in  a 
gust  of  tears  and  laughter,  "  He  's  just  like  grandfather ; 
he  'd  face  anything  !  " 

"  Anything  in  the  'tarnal  universe,  I  guess,  'cept  you, 
Miss  Susie.  I  seed  a  cannon-ball  smash  a  shovel  in  his 
hands,  and  he  got  another,  and  went  on  with  his  work  cool 
as  a  cucumber.  Then  I  seed  him  writin'  a  letter  to  you, 
and  his  hand  trembled  —  " 

"A  letter  to  me  !  "  cried  the  girl,  springing  up. 

"  Yes ;  'ere  it  is.  I  was  kind  of  pegging  around  till  I 
got  to  that;  and  you  know — " 

But  Susie  was  reading,  her  hands  also  trembling  so  she 
scarcely  hold  the  paper.  "  It 's  about  you,"  she  faltered, 
making  one  more  desperate  effort  at  self-preservation. 
"  He  says  you  'd  stay  if  you  could ;  that  they  almost 
drove  you  home.  And  he  asks  that  I  be  kind  to  you, 
because  there  are  not  many  to  care  for  you  —  and  — 
and  —  " 

"Oh,  Lord!  never  can  get  even  with  that  Zeb  Jarvis," 
groaned  Ezra.  "  But  you  need  n't  tell  me  that 's  all  the 
letter's  about." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  yet  not  so  full  but  that  she 
saw  the  plain,  closing  words  in  all  their  significance. 
Swiftly  the  letter  went  to  her  lips,  then  was  thrust  into 
her  bosom,  and  she  seized  the  cobbler's  hand,  exclaim- 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE 'S  CHRISTMAS.  305 

ing,  "  Yes,  I  will !  I  will  !  You  shall  stay  with  us  and 
be  one  of  us  !  "  and  in  her  excitement  she  put  her  left 
hand  caressingly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Susan .' "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rolliffe,  who  entered  at  that 
moment,  and  looked  aghast  at  the  scene. 

"Yes,  I  will!"  exclaimed  Susie,  too  wrought  up  now 
for  restraint. 

"  Will  what?  "  gasped  the  mother. 

"  Be  Zebulon  Jarvis's  wife.  He  's  asked  me  plump  and 
square,  like  a  soldier ;  and  I  '11  answer  as  grandma  did, 
and  like  grandma  I  '11  face  anything  for  his  sake." 

"  Wedl,  this  is  suddent  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rolliffe,  drop 
ping  into  a  chair.  "  Susan,  do  you  think  it  is  becoming 
and  seemly  for  a  young  woman  —  " 

"  Oh,  mother  dear,  there  's  no  use  of  your  trying  to  make 
a  prim  Puritan  maiden  of  me.  Zeb  does  n't  fight  like  a 
deacon,  and  I  can't  love  like  one.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  to  think 
that  great  soldier  is  afraid  of  little  me,  and  nothing  else  ! 
It's  too  funny  and  heavenly  —  " 

"  Susan,  I  am  dumbfounded  at  your  behavior  !  " 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Rolliffe  came  in  from  the  wood-lot, 
and  he  was  dazed  by  the  wonderful  news  also.  In  his 
eagerness  to  get  even  with  Zeb,  the  cobbler  enlarged  and 
expatiated  till  he  was  hoarse.  When  he  saw  that  the  par 
ents  were  almost  as  proud  as  the  daughter  over  their  pro 
spective  son-in-law,  he  relapsed  into  his  old  taciturnity, 
declaring  he  had  talked  enough  for  a  month. 

Susie,  the  only  child,  who  apparently  had  inherited  all 
the  fire  and  spirit  of  her  fighting  ancestors,  darted  out,  and 
soon  returned  with  her  rosebud  of  a  face  enveloped  in  a 
great  calyx  of  a  woollen  hood. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  exclaimed  her  parents. 

"  You  Ve  had  the  news.     I  guess  Mother  Jarvis  has  the 

CO 


3<D6         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

next  right."  And  she  was  off  over  the  hills  with  almost  the 
lightness  and  swiftness  of  a  snowbird. 

In  due  time  Zeke  appeared,  and  smiled  encouragingly  on 
Mrs.  Rolliffe,  who  sat  knitting  by  the  kitchen  fire.  The 
matron  did  not  rise,  and  gave  him  but  a  cool  salutation. 
He  discussed  the  coldness  of  the  weather  awkwardly  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  ventured,  "  Is  Miss  Susan  at 
home?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Rolliffe ;  "  she 's  gone  to  make  a 
visit  to  her  mother-in-law  that  is  to  be,  the  Widow  Jarvis. 
Ezra  Stokes  is  sittin'  in  the  next  room,  sent  home  sick. 
Perhaps  you  'd  like  to  talk  over  camp- life  with  him." 

Not  even  the  cider  now  sustained  Zeke.  He  looked  as 
if  a  cannon-ball  had  wrecked  all  his  hopes  and  plans  in 
stead  of  a  shovel.  "  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Rolliffe,"  he 
stammered;  "I  guess  I'll  —  I'll  —  go  home." 

Poor  Mrs.  Jarvis  had  a  spiritual  conflict  that  day  which 
she  never  forgot.  Susie's  face  had  flashed  at  the  window 
near  which  she  had  sat  spinning,  and  sighing  perhaps  that 
Nature  had  not  provided  feathers  or  fur  for  a  brood  like 
hers ;  then  the  girl's  arms  were  about  her  neck,  the  news 
was  stammered  out  —  for  the  letter  could  never  be  shown 
to  any  one  —  in  a  way  that  tore  primness  to  tatters.  The 
widow  tried  to  act  as  if  it  were  a  dispensation  of  Provi 
dence  which  should  be  received  in  solemn  gratitude ;  but 
before  she  knew  it  she  was  laughing  and  crying,  kissing  her 
sweet-faced  daughter,  or  telling  how  good  and  brave  Zeb 
had  been  when  his  heart  was  almost  breaking. 

Compunction  had  already  seized  upon  the  widow.  "  Su 
san,"  she  began,  "  I  fear  we  are  not  mortifyin'  the  flesh 
as  we  ought  —  " 

"  No  mortifying  just  yet,  if  you  please,"  cried  Susie. 
"  The  most  important  thing  of  all  is  yet  to  be  done.  Zeb 


SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS.  307 

has  n't  heard  the  news ;  just  think  of  it !  You  must  write 
and  tell  him  that  I  '11  help  you  spin  the  children's  clothes 
and  work  the  farm  ;  that  we  '11  face  everything  in  Opinquake 
as  long  as  Old  Put  needs  men.  Where  is  the  ink-horn? 
I  '11  sharpen  a  pen  for  you  and  one  for  me,  and  such  news 
as  he  '11  get !  Wish  I  could  tell  him,  though,  and  see  the 
great  fellow  tremble  once  more.  Afraid  of  me  !  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  that 's  the  funniest  thing  —  Why,  Mother  Jarvis, 
this  is  Christmas  Day  !  " 

"  So  it  is,"  said  the  widow,  in  an  awed  tone.  "  Susie, 
my  heart  misgives  me  that  all  this  should  have  happened 
on  a  day  of  which  Popery  has  made  so  much." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  the  girl.  "  Thank  God  it  is  Christmas  ! 
and  hereafter  I  shall  keep  Christmas  as  long  as  love  is  love 
and  God  is  good." 


JEFF'S    TREASURE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

ITS    DISCOVERY. 

JEFF,  the  hero  of  my  tale,  was  as  truly  a  part  of  the 
Southern  Confederacy  as  the  greater  Jeff  at  Richmond. 
Indeed,  were  it  not  for  the  humbler  Jeff  and  the  class  he 
represented,  the  other  Jeff  would  never  have  attained  his 
eminence. 

Jeffs  prospects  were  as  dark  as  himself.  He  owned 
nothing,  not  even  himself,  yet  his  dream  of  riches  is  the 
motive  of  my  tale.  Regarded  as  a  chattel,  for  whom  a  bill 
of  sale  would  have  been  made  as  readily  as  for  a  bullock, 
he  proved  himself  a  man  and  brother  by  a  prompt  exhi 
bition  of  traits  too  common  to  human  nature  when  chance 
and  some  heroism  on  his  part  gave  into  his  hands  the 
semblance  of  a  fortune. 

Jeff  was  a  native  Virginian  and  belonged  to  an  F.  F.  V. 
in  a  certain  practical,  legal  sense  which  thus  far  had  not 
greatly  disturbed  his  equanimity.  His  solid  physique  and 
full  shining  face  showed  that  slavery  had  brought  no  horrors 
into  his  experience.  He  had  indulged,  it  is  true,  in  vague 
yearnings  for  freedom,  but  these  had  been  checked  by  hear 
ing  that  liberty  meant  "working  for  Yankees," -— appalling 


JEFF'S   TREASURE.  309 

news  to  his  indolent  soul.  He  was  house-servant  and  man- 
of-all-work  in  a  family  whose  means  had  always  been  limited, 
and  whose  men  were  in  the  Confederate  army.  His  "  missus  " 
evinced  a  sort  of  weary  content  when  he  had  been  scolded 
or  threatened  into  the  completion  of  his  tasks  by  nightfall. 
He  then  gave  her  and  her  daughters  some  compensation 
for  their  trials  with  him  by  producing  his  fiddle  and  making 
the  warm  summer  evening  resonant  with  a  kind  of  music 
which  the  negro  only  can  evoke.  Jeff  was  an  artist,  and  had 
a  complacent  consciousness  of  the  fact.  He  was  a  living 
instance  of  the  truth  that  artists  are  born,  not  made.  No 
knowledge  of  this  gifted  class  had  ever  suggested  kinship ; 
he  did  not  even  know  what  the  word  meant,  but  when  his 
cheek  rested  lovingly  against  his  violin  he  felt  that  he  was 
made  of  different  clay  from  other  "  niggahs."  During  the 
day  he  indulged  in  moods  by  the  divine  right  and  impulse 
of  genius,  imitating  his  gifted  brothers  unconsciously.  In 
waiting  on  the  table,  washing  dishes,  and  hoeing  the  garden, 
he  was  as  great  a  laggard  as  Pegasus  would  have  been  if 
compelled  to  the  labors  of  a  cart-horse ;  but  when  night 
came,  and  uncongenial  toil  was  over,  his  soul  expanded.  His 
corrugated  brow  unwrinkled  itself;  his  great  black  fingers 
flew  back  and  forth  over  the  strings  as  if  driven  by  elec 
tricity  ;  and  electric  in  effect  were  the  sounds  produced  by 
his  swiftly- glancing  bow. 

While  the  spirit  of  music  so  filled  his  heart  that  he  could 
play  to  the  moon  and  silent  stars,  an  audience  inspired  him 
with  tenfold  power,  especially  if  the  floor  was  cleared  or  a 
smooth  sward  selected  for  a  dance.  Rarely  did  he  play 
long  before  all  who  could  trip  a  measure  were  on  their  feet, 
while  even  the  superannuated  nodded  and  kept  time,  sighing 
that  they  were  old.  His  services  naturally  came  into  great 
demand,  and  he  was  catholic  in  granting  them,  —  his  mis- 


3IO         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

tress  in  good-natured  tolerance  acceding  to  requests  which 
promised  many  forgetful  hours  at  a  time  when  the  land  was 
shadowed  by  war.  So  it  happened  that  Jeff  was  often  at 
the  more  pretending  residences  of  the  neighborhood,  some 
times  fiddling  in  the  detached  kitchen  of  a  Southern  man 
sion  to  the  shuffle  of  heavy  feet,  again  in  the  lighted  parlor, 
especially  when  Confederate  troops  were  quartered  near. 
It  was  then  that  his  strains  took  on  their  most  inspiring  and 
elevated  character.  He  gave  wings  to  the  dark-eyed  South 
ern  girls ;  their  feet  scarcely  touched  the  floor  as  they 
whirled  with  their  cavaliers  in  gray,  or  threaded  the  mazes 
of  the  cotillon  then  and  there  in  vogue. 

Nor  did  he  disdain  an  invitation  to  a  cross-road's  tavern, 
frequented  by  poor  whites  and  enlisted  men,  or  when  the 
nights  were  warm,  to  a  moonlit  sward,  on  which  he  would 
invite  his  audience  to  a  reel  which  left  all  breathless.  While 
there  was  a  rollicking  element  in  the  strains  of  his  fiddle 
which  a  deacon  could  not  resist,  he,  with  the  intuition  of 
genius,  adapted  himself  to  the  class  before  him.  In  the 
parlor,  he  called  off  the  figures  of  a  quadrille  with  a  "  by- 
yer-leave-sah  "  air,  selecting  as  a  rule,  the  highest  class  of 
music  that  had  blessed  his  ears,  for  he  was  ear-taught  only. 
He  would  hold  a  half-washed  dish  suspended  minutes  at  a 
time  while  listening  to  one  "  ob  de  young  missys  at  de 
pianny.  Dat  's  de  way  I  'se  pick  up  my  most  scrumptious 
pieces.  Dey  cyant  play  nuffin  in  de  daytime  dat  I  cyant 
'prove  on  in  de  ebenin' ;  "  and  his  vanity  did  not  lead  him 
much  astray.  But  when  with  those  of  his  own  color,  or 
with  the  humbler  classes,  he  gave  them  the  musical  vernacu 
lar  of  the  region,  —  rude,  traditional  quicksteps  and  songs, 
strung  together  with  such  variations  of  his  own  as  made 
him  the  envy  and  despair  of  all  other  fiddlers  in  the  vicinity. 
Indeed,  he  could  rarely  get  away  from  a  great  house  without 


JEFFS    TREASURE.  31 1 

a  sample  of  his  powers  in  this  direction,  and  then  blend 
ing  with  the  rhythmical  cadence  of  feet,  the  rustle  of  gar 
ments,  would  be  evoked  ripples  of  mirth  and  bursts  of 
laughter  that  were  echoed  back  from  the  dim  pine-groves 
without.  Finally,  when  with  his  great  foot  beating  time  on 
the  floor  and  every  muscle  of  his  body  in  motion,  he  ended 
with  an  original  arrangement  of  "  Dixie,"  the  eyes  of  the 
gentlest  maiden  would  flash  as  she  joined  the  chorus  of 
the  men  in  gray,  who  were  scarcely  less  excited  for  the 
moment  than  they  would  have  been  in  a  headlong  cavalry 
charge. 

These  were  moments  of  glory  for  Jeff.  In  fact,  on  all 
similar  occasions  he  had  a  consciousness  of  his  power ;  he 
made  the  slave  forget  his  bondage,  the  poor  whites  their 
poverty,  maidens  the  absence  of  their  fathers,  brothers,  and 
lovers,  and  the  soldier  the  chances  against  his  return. 

At  last  there  came  a  summer  day  when  other  music  than 
that  of  Jeff's  fiddle  resounded  through  that  region.  Two 
armies  met  and  grappled  through  the  long  sultry  hours. 
Every  moment  death-wounds  were  given  and  received,  for 
thick  as  insects  in  woods,  grove,  and  thicket,  bullets  whizzed 
on  their  fatal  mission ;  while  from  every  eminence  the  de 
moniacal  shells  shrieked  in  exultation  over  the  havoc  they 
wrought. 

Jeff's  home  was  on  the  edge  of  the  battle-field,  and  as  he 
trembled  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  cellar,  he  thought, 
"  Dis  yer  beats  all  de  thunder-gusts  I  eber  heered  crack,  run 
togedder  in  one  big  hurricane." 

With  the  night  came  silence,  except  as  it  was  broken  by 
the  groans  and  cries  of  wounded  men ;  and  later  the  con 
tending  forces  departed,  having  accorded  to  the  fallen  such 
poor  burial  as  was  given  them  when  life  was  cheap  and 
death  the  chief  harvester  in  Virginia. 


312         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

For  a  day  or  two  Jeffs  conscience  was  active,  and  the 
memory  of  the  resolutions  inspired  by  the  din  of  war  gave 
to  his  thin  visage  a  preternatural  seriousness.  Dishes  were 
washed  in  such  brief  time  and  so  thoroughly,  and  such  havoc 
made  in  the  garden-weeds  that  the  world  might  make  a  note 
of  Jeffs  idea  of  reform  (to  its  advantage).  In  the  evening 
his  riddle  wailed  out  psalm-tunes  to  the  entire  exclusion  of 
its  former  carnal  strains. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  Jeffs  grace  was  like 
the  early  dew.  On  the  third  evening,  "  Ole  Dan  Tucker  " 
slipped  in  among  the  hymns,  and  these  were  played  in  a 
time  scarcely  befitting  their  character.  Then  came  a  bit  of 
news  that  awakened  a  wholly  different  train  of  thought  and 
desire.  A  colored  boy,  more  venturous  than  himself,  was 
said  to  have  picked  up  some  "  Linkum "  money  on  the 
battle-field.  This  information  shed  on  the  wild  wooded 
tract  where  the  war  trumpet  had  raged  the  most  fiercely  a 
light  more  golden  than  that  of  the  moon  then  at  its  full ; 
and  Jeff  resolved  that  with  the  coming  night  he  also  would 
explore  a  region  which,  nevertheless,  had  nameless  terrors 
for  him. 

"Ef  dere 's  spooks  anywhere  dey's  dereaway,"  he  mut 
tered  over  his  hoe ;  "  but  den,  ki !  dey  woan  'fere  wid  dis 
yer  niggah.  What  hab  I  'se  got  ter  do  wid  de  wah  and  de 
Tighten  an  de  jabbin'  ?  De  spooks  cyant  lay  nuffin  ter  me 
eben  ef  ole  marse  an"  de  res'  am  a-fighten  ter  keep  dere 
slabes,  as  folks  say." 

Having  thus  satisfied  himself  that  the  manes  of  the  dead 
thousands  could  have  no  controversy  with  him,  Jeff  mus 
tered  sufficient  resolution  to  visit  the  field  that  night.  He 
took  no  one  into  his  confidence,  fearing  if  he  discovered 
treasures  of  any  kind  he  could  not  be  left  in  undisturbed 
possession.  During  the  day  the  rudiments  of  imagination 


JEFF'S    l^REASURE.  313 

which  made   him  a  musician  had  been  conjuring  up   the 
possible  results  of  his  expedition. 

"  De  ting  fer  dis  cullud  pusson  ter  do  is  ter  p'ramber 
late  ter  de  Linkum  lines.  Ki !  I  doan  wan'  what  drap  outen 
our  sogers'  pockets.  I  kin  git  Virginny-leaf  widouten  run- 
nin'  'mong  de  spooks  arter  it.  De  place  fer  a  big  fine 
is  whar  de  brush  is  tick  and  de  Linkum  men  crawl  away  so 
dey  woan  be  tromp  on.  Who  knows  but  I  kin  fine  a  place 
whar  a  ginral  hide  hisself  ?  Ob  cose  if  he  hab  a  lot  of  gole 
he  'd  stick  it  in  de  bush  or  kiver  it  right  smart,  so  dat  oders 
mout  n't  get  it  foh  he  could  helf  hisself." 

Jeff  thought  he  had  reasoned  himself  into  such  a  valor 
ous  state  that  he  could  walk  across  the  deserted  battle-field 
with  nonchalance  ;  but  as  he  entered  on  a  deeply- shadowed 
dirt-road  long  since  disused  to  any  extent,  he  found  strange 
creeping  sensations  running  up  and  down  his  back.  The 
moonlight  filtered  through  the  leaves  with  fantastic  effects. 
A  young  silver  poplar  looked  ghastly  in  the  distance ;  and 
now  and  then  a  tree  cut  off  by  a  shot  looked  almost  human 
in  its  mutilation. 

He  had  not  gone  very  far  before  he  saw  what  appeared 
to  be  the  body  of  a  man  lying  across  the  road.  With  a 
sudden  chill  of  blood  he  stopped  and  stared  at  the  object. 
Gradually  it  resolved  itself  into  a  low  mound  in  the  dim 
light.  Approaching  cautiously,  he  discovered  with  a  dull 
sense  of  horror  that  a  soldier  had  been  buried  where  he 
had  fallen,  but  covered  so  slightly  that  the  tumulus  scarcely 
more  than  outlined  his  form. 

"  Ob  cose  I  knowed  I  'd  hab  ter  see  dese  tings  foh  I 
started.  What  I  such  a  fool  fer?  De  Feds  nor  de  Yanks 
ain'  a-gwine  ter  bodder  me  if  I  am'  steppin'  on  'em  or  ober 
'em."  And  he  went  scrupulously  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road. 


314          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES, 

By  and  by,  however,  he  came  to  a  part  of  the  wood-lane 
where  men  had  fallen  by  the  score,  and  bodies  had  been 
covered  in  twos,  threes,  and  dozens.  His  head  felt  as  if 
his  very  wool  were  straightening  itself  out,  as  he  wound 
here  and  there  and  zigzagged  in  all  directions  lest  he 
should  step  on  or  over  a  grave.  A  breeze  stirred  the  forest 
as  if  all  the  thousands  buried  in  its  shades  had  heaved  a 
long  deep  sigh.  With  chattering  teeth  Jeff  stopped  to  lis 
ten,  then,  reassured,  continued  to  pick  his  tortuous  way. 
Suddenly  there  was  an  ominous  rustling  in  a  thicket  just 
behind.  He  broke  into  a  headlong  flight  across  and  over 
everything,  when  the  startled  grunt  of  a  hog  revealed  the 
prosaic  nature  of  this  spook.  Scarcely  any  other  sound 
could  have  been  more  reassuring.  The  animal  suggested 
bacon  and  hominy  and  hoe-cake,  everything  except  the 
ghostly.  He  berated  himself  angrily  :  — 

"  Ki !  you  niggah  !  dat  ar  hog  got  mo'  co'age  dan  you. 
He  know  he  hab  nuffin  mo'  ter  do  wid  de  spooks  dan  you 
hab.  De  run  ain'  far,  and  when  I  gits  ober  dat  de  spooks 
on  de  side  dis  way  cyant  cross  arter  me ;  "  and  he  hastened 
toward  the  spot  where  he  supposed  the  Federals  had  been 
massed  the  most  heavily,  crossing  an  open  field  and  splash 
ing  through  a  shallow  place  in  the  river,  that  their  ghostships 
might  be  reminded  of  running  water. 

On  the  farther  slope  were  the  same  sad  evidences  of  poor 
mortality,  graves  here  and  there  and  often  all  too  shallow, 
broken  muskets,  bullet-perforated  canteens  and  torn  knap 
sacks,  —  the  debris  of  a  pitched  battle.  Many  trees  and 
shrubs  were  so  lacerated  that  their  foliage  hung  limp  and 
wilting,  while  boughs  with  shrivelled  leaves  strewed  the 
ground.  Nature's  wounds  indicated  that  men  had  fought 
here  and  been  mutilated  as  ruthlessly. 

For  a  time  nothing  of  value  rewarded  Jeffs  search,  and 


JEFF'S   TREASURE.  315 

he  began  to  succumb  to  the  gruesome  associations  of  the 
place.  At  last  he  resolved  to  examine  one  more  thicket 
that  bordered  an  old  rail-fence,  and  then  make  a  long  de 
tour  rather  than  go  back  by  the  graveyard  road  over  which 
he  had  come.  Pushing  the  bushes  aside,  he  peered  among 
their  shadows  for  some  moments,  and  then  uttered  an  ex 
clamation  of  surprise  and  terror  as  he  bounded  backward. 
There  was  no  mistake  this  time ;  he  had  seen  the  figure  of 
a  man  with  a  ray  of  moonlight  filtering  through  the  leaves 
on  a  ghastly  bullet-hole  in  his  temple.  He  sat  with  his 
back  against  the  fence,  and  had  not  moved  after  receiving 
the  shock.  At  his  feet,  dropped  evidently  from  his  nerveless 
hand,  lay  a  metal  box.  All  had  flashed  almost  instantane 
ously  on  Jeff's  vision. 

For  some  moments  he  was  in  doubt  whether  to  take  to 
his  heels  homeward  or  reconnoitre  again.  The  soldier  sat 
in  such  a  lifelike  attitude  that  while  Jeff  knew  the  man 
must  be  dead,  taking  the  box  seemed  like  robbing  the  liv 
ing.  Yes,  worse  than  that,  for  to  the  superstitious  negro, 
the  dead  soldier  appeared  to  be  watching  his  treasure. 

Jeffs  cupidity  slowly  mastered  his  fears.  Cautiously  ap 
proaching  the  figure,  he  again  pushed  aside  the  screening 
boughs,  and  with  chattering  teeth  and  trembling  limbs, 
looked  upon  the  silent  guardian  of  the  treasure,  half  ex 
pecting  the  dead  man  to  raise  his  head,  and  warn  him  off 
with  a  threatening  gesture.  Since  the  figure  remained  mo 
tionless,  Jeff  made  a  headlong  plunge,  clutched  the  box, 
then  ran  half  a  mile  without  thinking  to  look  back. 

Not  for  his  life  would  he  cross  the  battle-field  again ;  "so  it 
was  late  when  by  wide  circuit  he  approached  the  dwelling 
of  his  mistress.  His  panic  had  gradually  subsided,  and  as 
he  noted  familiar  objects,  he  felt  that  he  was  beyond  the 
proper  range  of  the  unjust  spirits  of  the  dead. 


3l6          TAKEN  A  LIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

The  soldier  he  had  left  sitting  against  the  fence  troubled 
him,  it  is  true ;  and  he  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  was 
through  with  one  so  palpably  robbed.  That  he  had  not 
been  followed  appeared  certain ;  that  the  question  of  future 
ownership  of  the  treasure  could  be  settled  was  a  matter  of 
superstitious  belief.  There  was  only  one  way,  —  he  must 
hide  the  box  in  a  secret  nook,  and  if  it  remained  undis 
turbed  for  a  reasonable  length  of  time,  he  might  hope  for 
its  undisturbed  enjoyment.  Accordingly  he  stole  into  a 
dense  copse  and  buried  his  booty  at  the  foot  of  a  persimmon- 
tree,  then  gained  his  humble  quarter  and  slept  so  late  and 
soundly  that  he  had  to  be  dragged  almost  without  the  door 
the  next  morning  before  he  shook  off  his  lethargy. 


CHAPTER   II. 

ITS    INFLUENCE. 

T  X  7TTH  the  exception  of  aptitude  which  enabled  Jeff  to 
catch  and  fix  a  tune  in  his  mind  with  a  fair  degree 
of  correctness,  his  mental  processes  were  slow.  Moreover, 
whether  he  should  ever  have  any  trouble  with  "  spooks  "  or 
not,  one  thing  was  true  of  him,  as  of  many  others  in  all  sta 
tions  of  life,  he  was  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  a  conscience. 
This  uneasy  spirit  suggested  to  him  with  annoying  iteration 
that  his  proceedings  the  night  before  had  been  of  very  un 
usual  and  doubtful  character.  When  at  last  fully  awake,  he 
sought  to  appease  the  accusing  voice  by  unwonted  diligence 
in  all  his  tasks,  until  the  fat  cook,  a  devout  Baptist,  took 
more  than  one  occasion  to  say,  "  You  'se  in  a  promisin'  frame, 
Jeff,  Ef  I  'se  ony  shoah  dat  yer  hole  out  long  anuff  ter  get 


JEFF'S   TREASURE.  317 

'mersed,  I  'd  hab  hopes  on  yer,  but,  law  !  yer  '11  be  a-fiddlin' 
de  debil's  tunes  To'  de  week  is  out,  I  'se  afeared  dat  dere 
must  be  an  awful  prov'dence,  like  a  battle  or  harricane,  onst 
a  week,  ter  keep  yer  ser'ous ;  "  and  the  old  woman  sniffed 
down  at  him  with  ill-concealed  disdain  from  her  superior 
spiritual  height. 

Jeff  was  as  serious  as  could  have  been  wished  all  that  day, 
for  there  was  much  on  his  mind.  Perplexing  questions 
tinged  with  supernatural  terrors  tormented  him.  Passing 
over  those  having  a  moral  point,  the  most  urgent  one  was, 
"S'pose  dat  ar  soger  miss  him  box  an'  come  arter  it  ter- 
night.  Ki !  If  I  go  ter  see,  I  mout  run  right  on  ter  de 
spook.  I  'se  a-gwine  ter  gib  'im  his  chance,  an'  den  take 
mine."  So  that  evening  Jeff  fortified  himself  and  increased 
the  cook's  hope  by  a  succession  of  psalm-tunes  in  which 
there  was  no  lapse  toward  the  "  debil's  "  music. 

Next  morning,  after  a  long  sleep,  Jeff's  nerves  were 
stronger,  and  he  began  to  take  a  high  hand  with  conscience. 

"  Dat  ar  soger  has  hab  his  chance,"  he  reasoned.  "  Ef 
he  want  de  box  he  mus'  'a'  com  arter  it  las'  night.  I  'se 
done  bin  fa'r  wid  him,  an'  now  ter-night,  ef  dat  ar  box  am' 
'sturbed,  I  'se  a  gwine  ter  see  de  'scription  an'  heft  on  it. 
Toder  night  I  was  so  'fuscated  dat  I  could  n't  know  nuffin 
straight." 

When  all  were  sleeping,  he  stole  to  the  persimmon-tree  and 
was  elated  to  find  his  treasure  where  he  had  slightly  buried 
it.  The  little  box  seemed  heavy,  and  was  wholly  unlike 
anything  he  had  ever  seen  before. 

"  Ob  cose  it 's  got  money  in  it,"  Jeff  reasoned.  "  Muffin 
else  'ud  be  done  up  so  tight  and  strong.  I  'se  woan  open  it 
jes'  yet,  feared  de  missus  or  de  colored  boys  'spec'  some- 
ting.  Ki  !  I  is  n't  a-gwine  ter  be  tied  up,  an'  hab  dat  box 
whip  out  in  me.  I  '11  tink  how  I  kin  hide  an'  spen'  de  money 


3l8          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTl'lER  STORIES. 

kine  of  slowcution  like."  With  this  he  restored  the  prize 
to  its  shallow  excavation  and  covered  it  with  leaves  that 
no  trace  of  fresh  earth  might  be  visible. 

Jeffs  deportment  now  began  to  evince  a  new  evolution  in 
mental  and  moral  process.  The  influence  of  riches  was 
quite  as  marked  upon  him  as  upon  so  many  of  his  white 
brothers  and  sisters,  proving  their  essential  kinship.  To-day 
he  began  to  sniff  disdainfully  at  his  menial  tasks ;  and  in  the 
evening  "  Ole  Dan  Tucker"  resounded  from  his  fiddle  with 
a  rollicking  abandon  over  which  the  cook  groaned  in  de 
spair,  "  Dat  ar  niggah's  'ligion  drop  off  ob  'im  like  a  yaller 
pig  from  de  bush.  'Ligion  dat  's  skeert  inter  us  hain't  no 
'count  anyhow." 

During  the  next  few  days  it  was  evident  that  Jeff  was  fall 
ing  from  grace  rapidly.  Never  had  he  been  so  slow  and 
careless  in  his  tasks.  More  than  once  the  thought  crossed 
his  mind  that  he  had  better  take  his  box  and  "  cut  stick" 
for  Washington,  where  he  believed  that  wealth  and  his  fiddle 
would  give  him  prominence  over  his  race.  For  prudential 
and  other  reasons  he  was  in  no  haste  to  open  the  box,  pre 
ferring  rather  to  gloat  over  it  and  to  think  how  he  could 
spend  the  money  to  the  greatest  advantage.  He  had  been 
paying  his  court  to  a  girl  as  black  as  himself  on  a  neigh 
boring  plantation ;  but  he  now  regarded  that  affair  as 
preposterous. 

"  She  ain'  good  nuff  fer  me  no  mo',"  he  reasoned.  "  I  'se 
a-gwine  ter  shine  up  ter  dat  yaller  Suky  dat 's  been  a-holdin' 
her  head  so  high  ober  ter  Marse  Perkins's.  I  'se  invited  ter 
play  ober  dar  ter-night,  an'  I  '11  make  dat  gal  open  her  eye. 
Ki !  she  tinks  no  culled  gemmen  in  dese  parts  fit  ter  hole  a 
cannle  when  she  braid  her  long  straight  ha'r,  but  when  she 
see  de  ribbin  I  kin  git  her  ter  tie  dat  ha'r  up  wid,  an'  de 
earrings  I  kin  put  in  her  ears,  she  larf  on  toder  side  ob  her 


fEFF'S   TREASURE.  319 

face.  'Fo'  I  go  I  'se  a-gwine  ter  buy  dat  ar  gole  ring  ob  Sam 
Milkins  down  at  de  tavern.  S'pose  it  does  take  all  I  'se 
been  sabin'  up,  I  'se  need  n't  sabe  any  mo".  Dat  ar  box 
got  nuff  in  it  ter  keep  me  like  a  lawd  de  rest  ob  my  life. 
I  'd  open  it  ter-night  if  I  wasn't  goin'  ter  Marse  Perkins's." 

Jeff  carried  out  his  high-handed  measures  and  appeared 
that  evening  at  "  Marse  Perkins's  "  with  a  ring  of  portentous 
size  squeezed  on  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand.  It  had 
something  of  the  color  of  gold,  and  that  is  the  best  that  can 
be  said  of  it ;  but  it  had  left  its  purchaser  penniless.  This 
fact  sat  lightly  on  Jeffs  mind,  however,  as  he  remembered 
the  box  at  the  foot  of  the  persimmon-tree ;  and  he  stalked 
into  the  detached  kitchen,  where  a  dusky  assemblage  were 
to  indulge  in  a  shuffle,  with  the  air  of  one  who  intends  that 
his  superiority  shall  be  recognized  at  once. 

"  Law  sakes,  Jeff!"  said  Mandy,  his  hitherto  ebon  flame, 
"  yer  comes  in  like  a  turkey  gobbler.  Does  n't  yer  know 
me?  " 

"  Sartin  I  know  yer,  Mandy.  You  'se  a  good  gal  in 
you  'se  way,  but,  law !  you  'se  had  yer  spell.  A  culled 
gemmen  kin  change  his  min'  when  he  sees  dat  de  'finity  's 
done  gone." 

"  Look  here,  Jeff  Wobbles,  does  yer  mean  ter  give  me  de 
sack?  " 

"  I  mean  ter  gib  yer  good-ebenin',  Miss  Mandy  Munson. 
Yer  cyant  'spec'  a  gemmen  to  be  degaged  in  de  music 
an'  a  gal  at  de  same  time,"  replied  Jeff,  with  oppressive 
gravity. 

"  Mister  Johnsing,  I  'se  tank  yer  fo'  yer  arm,"  said  Mandy 
to  a  man  near,  with  responsive  dignity.  "  Yer  wait  on  me 
here,  an'  yer  kin  wait  on  me  home.  I  'se  'shamed  on  my- 
sef  dat  I  took  up  wid  a  lout  dat  kin  do  nuffin  but  fiddle ; 
but  I  was  kine  ob  sorry  fer  him,  he  sich  a  fool." 


32O          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Go  'long,"  remarked  Jeff,  smiling  mysteriously.  "  Ef 
yer  knowed,  yer  'ud  be  wringin'  yer  ban's  wuss  dan  yer  did 
at  de  las'  'tracted  meetin'.  Ah,  Miss  Suky,  dat  you?" 
and  Jeff  for  the  first  time  doffed  his  hat. 

"  Wat 's  in  de  win',  Jeff,  dat  yer  so  scrumptious  an'  bump 
tious  like  dis  ebenin'  ?  "  Suky  asked  a  trifle  scornfully. 

"  Wen  de  'freshments  parse  'roun',  I  'se  'steem  it  a  obler- 
gation  ter  me  ef  yer  '11  let  me  bring  yer  de  cake  an'  cider. 
I  'se  sumpin  fer  yer.  Gemmen  an'  ladies,  took  yer  places," 
he  added  in  a  stentorian  voice ;  "  I  ax  yer  'sideration  fer 
bein'  late,  cose  I  had  'portant  business ;  now, 

"  Bow  dar,  scrape  dar ; 

Doan  hang  about  de  doah. 
Shine  up  ter  de  pretty  gals, 
An'  lead  'em  on  de  floah,  "  — 

his  fiddle  seconding  his  exhortation  with  such  inciting 
strains  that  soon  there  was  not  a  foot  but  was  keeping 
time. 

Suky  observed  that  the  musician  had  eyes  for  her  only, 
and  that  toward  all  others  he  maintained  his  depressing 
superiority.  In  vain  did  Mandy  lavish  tokens  of  favor  on 
"  Mister  Johnsing."  Jeff  did  not  lose  his  sudden  and  un 
expected  indifference ;  while  the  great  ring  glistening  on  his 
finger  added  to  the  mystery.  There  were  many  whispered 
surmises ;  but  gradually  the  conjecture  that  he  had  "  foun' 
a  heap  ob  Linkum  money  "  was  regarded  as  the  best  ex 
planation  of  the  marked  change  in  his  bearing. 

Curiosity  soon  became  more  potent  than  Jeff's  fiddle, 
and  the  "  'freshments  "  were  hurried  up.  So  far  from  re 
senting  this,  Jeff  put  his  violin  under  his  arm  and  stalked 
across  the  improvised  ball-room  to  Miss  Suky,  oblivious  of 
the  fact  that  she  had  a  suitor  on  either  side. 

"  Gemmen,"  he  remarked  with  condescension,  "  dis  lady 


JEFF'S   TREASURE.  321 

am  degaged  ter  me  durin'  de  '  'freshments  period,'  "  and  he 
held  out  his  arm  in  such  a  way  that  the  massive  ring  glit 
tered  almost  under  Suky's  nose.  The  magnet  drew.  His 
arm  was  taken  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  the  enamoured 
swains. 

"  Permit  me  de  suggestation,"  continued  Jeff,  "  dat  ter  a 
lady  ob  yer  'finement,  dis  place  am  not  fit  ter  breve  in. 
Wha's  mo',  I  doan  'cline  ter  hab  dese  yer  common  niggahs 
a-whispirin'  an'  a-pintin'  an'  a-'jecturin'  about  us.  Lemme 
get  yer  a  seat  under  de  lite  ob  de  risin'  moon.  De  dusk  '11 
obscurate  yer  loveleness  so  I  'se  dar'  tell  all  de  news." 

Suky,  mystified  and  expectant,  but  complacent  over  an- 
othe-r  conquest,  made  no  objections  to  these  whispered 
"  suggestations,"  and  was  led  to  a  seat  under  the  shadow 
of  a  tree.  A  chorus  of  not  very  flattering  remarks  broke 
out,  ceasing  as  suddenly  when  Jeff  returned  for  a  portion 
of  the  cake  and  cider. 

"  Mister  Wobbles,  yer 's  prettin'  on  high  de  airs  ter-night," 
Suky  remarked,  with  an  interrogation  point  in  her  voice. 

"  Here  's  ter  de  health  ob  Mrs.  Wobbles,"  he  answered, 
lifting  the  cider  to  his  lips. 

"  I 'se  no  'jections  ter  dat.  Who  is  she  ter  be?"  re 
plied  Suky,  very  innocently. 

"  It 's  not  my  'tention  ter  go  furder  and  far'  wuss.  Dis 
am  a  case  wha  de  presen'  company  am  not  'cepted." 

"  No,  not  axcepted  jes'  yet,  Mr.  Wobbles,  if  yer  'se 
'dressin'  yer  remarks  ter  me.  Yer  is  goin'  on  jes'  a  little 
too  far." 

"  P'raps  a  little  far ;  but  yer  '11  soon  catch  up  wid  me. 
Yer 'se  a  lady  dat  got  a  min'  ob  her  own,  I  hope?  " 

"  It 's  mine  yet,  anyhow." 

"  An'  yer  kin  keep  as  mum  as  a  possum  w'en  de  cawn  is 
in  de  milk?  " 


322         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Dat  'pends." 

"  Ob  cose  it  does.  But  I  '11  trus"  yer ;  yer  ain'  de  one  ter 
bite  yer  own  nose  off.  Does  yer  see  dat  ar  ring,  Suky? 
Law  !  how  pretty  dat  look  on  yer  degaged  finger  !  " 

"  'T  ain'  dar  yet." 

"  Lemme  put  it  dar.  Ki !  would  n't  dey  look  an'  gape 
an"  pint  in  dar  yonder  w'en  yer  come  a-sailin'  in  wid  dat 
ring  on  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  dey  tink  me  a  big  fool  ter  be  captivated  by  a 
ring,  —  brass,  too,  like  anuff." 

"  No,  Suky,  it 's  gole,  —  yallow  gole,  di  'plexion  ob  yer 
own  fair  han'.  But,  law  !  dis  ain'  nuffin  ter  what  I  'se  '11 
git  yer.  Yer  'se  shall  hab  rings  an'  dresses  an'  jules  till  yer 
'stinguish  de  oder  gals  like  de  sun  put  out  de  stars." 

«  What  yer  foun',  Jeff  Wobbles?  " 

"  I  'se  foun'  what  '11  make  yer  a  lady  if  yer  hab  sense. 
I  'se  gib  yer  de  compliment  ob  s'lecting  yer  ter  shar' 
my  fine  if  yer  '11  lemme  put  dis  ring  on  yer  degaged 
finger." 

"  Yer  doan  say  nuffin  'bout  lub  in  dis  yer  'rangement," 
Suky  simpered,  sidling  up  to  him. 

"  Oh,  dat  kind  ob  sent'ment  '11  do  fer  common  nig- 
gahs,"  Jeff  explained  with  dignity.  "  I  'se  hurd  my  missus 
talk  'bout  'liances  'twixt  people  of  quality.  Ki !  Suky,  I  'se 
in  a  'sition  now  ter  make  a  'liance  wid  yer.  Yer  ain'  like 
dat  low  gal,  Mandy.  What  Mister  Johnsing  ebber  hab  ter 
gib  her  but  a  lickin'  some  day  ?  I  'se  done  wid  dat  com 
mon  class ;  I  may  fiddle  fur  'em  now  an'  den,  jes'  ter  see 
dem  sport  deysefs,  while  I  'se  lookin'  on  kin'  ob  s'periur 
like,  yer  know.  But  den,  dey  ain'  our  kin'  ob  folks.  Yer  'se 
got  qulities  dat  '11  shine  like  de  risin'  moon  dar."  Then  in 
a  whisper  he  added,  "  De  Linkum  sogers  is  off  dar  ter  the 
east'erd.  One  night's  trabel  an'  dey'd  sen'  us  on  ter 


JEFF'S   TREASURE.  323 

Washin'on.  Onst  yer  git  dar,  an'  hab  all  de  jules  an' 
dresses  dat  I  gib  yer,  dar 's  not  a  culled  gemmen  dereaway 
but  'ud  bow  down  ter  yer." 

Here  was  a  dazzling  vista  that  Suky  could  not  resist. 
Her  ideas  of  freedom,  like  those  of  Jeff,  were  not  very 
exalted.  At  that  period,  slave  property  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Union  lines  was  fast  melting  away ;  and  scarcely  a  night 
elapsed  but  some  one  was  missing,  the  more  adventurous 
and  intelligent  escaping  first,  and  others  following  as  op 
portunity  and  motive  pointed  the  way.  The  region  under 
consideration  had  not  yet  been  occupied  by  the  Federals, 
and  there  was  still  no  slight  risk  involved  in  flight.  Suky 
did  not  realize  the  magnitude  of  the  project.  She  was  not 
the  first  of  her  sex  to  be  persuaded  by  a  cavalier  and  prom 
ised  gold  to  take  a  leap  into  the  dark. 

As  a  result  of  Jeffs  representations  the  "  'liance "  was 
made  there  and  then,  secrecy  promised,  and  an  escape  to 
Washington  agreed  upon  as  soon  as  circumstances  per 
mitted,  —  Suky's  mind,  I  regret  to  say,  dwelling  more  on 
"  gemmen  bowing  down  "  to  her  than  on  the  devotion  of 
the  allied  suitor. 

No  lady  of  rank  in  Timbuctoo  could  have  sailed  into  the 
kitchen  ball-room  with  greater  state  than  Suky  now  after  the 
compact  had  been  made,  Jeff  supporting  her  on  his  arm 
with  the  conscious  air  of  one  who  has  taken  the  prize 
from  all  competitors.  With  the  assurance  of  a  potentate 
he  ensconced  himself  in  the  orchestra  corner  and  called 
the  dancers  to  their  feet. 

But  the  spirit  of  mutiny  was  present.  Eager  eyes  noted 
that  the  ring  on  his  bow-hand  was  gone.  Then  it  was  seen 
glistening  on  Suky's  hand  as  she  ostentatiously  fanned  her 
self.  The  clamor  broke  out,  "  Mister  Johnsing,"  incited  by 
Mandy  and  the  two  swains  between  whom  Suky  had  been 


324  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OILIER   STORIES. 

sandwiched,  leading  the  revolt  against  Jeff's  arrogance  and 
success. 

There  were  many,  however,  who  had  no  personal  wrongs 
to  right,  and  who  did  not  relish  being  made  a  cat's  paw  by 
the  disaffected.  These  were  bent  on  the  natural  progression 
and  conclusion  of  the  dance.  In  consequence  of  the 
wordy  uproar  the  master  of  the  premises  appeared  and 
cleared  them  all  out,  sending  his  own  servants  to  their 
quarters. 

Jeff  nearly  came  to  grief  that  night,  for  a  party  of  the 
malcontents  followed  him  on  his  homeward  walk.  Suspect 
ing  their  purpose,  he  dodged  behind  some  shrubbery, 
heard  their  threats  to  break  his  head  and  smash  his  fiddle, 
and  then  went  back  to  a  tryst  with  Suky. 

That  sagacious  damsel  had  been  meditating  on  the  pro 
posed  alliance.  Even  in  her  rather  sophisticated  mind  she 
had  regarded  a  semblance  of  love  as  essential ;  but  since 
Jeff  had  put  everything  on  such  superior  grounds,  she  fell: 
that  she  should  prove  herself  fit  for  new  and  exalted  con 
ditions  of  life  by  seeing  to  it  that  he  made  good  all  his 
remarkable  promises.  She  remembered  that  he  had  not 
yet  opened  the  box  of  money,  and  became  a  little  scep 
tical  as  to  its  contents.  Somebody  might  have  watched 
Jeff,  and  have  carried  it  off. 

True,  she  had  the  ring,  but  that  was  not  the  price  of  her 
hand.  Nothing  less  than  had  been  promised  would  answer 
now ;  and  when  she  stole  out  to  meet  Jeff  she  told  him  so. 
Under  the  witching  moonlight  he  began  to  manifest  ten 
dencies  to  sentiment  and  tenderness.  Her  response  was 
prompt :  "  Go  'long  !  what  dese  common  niggah  ways  got 
ter  do  wid  a  'liance  ?  Yer  show  me  de  gole  in  dat  box,  — 
dat's  de  bargain.  Den  de  'liance  hole  me  fas',  an'  I  '11  help 
yer  spen'  de  money  in  Washin'on.  We  '11  hab  a  weddin' 


JEFF'S   TREASURE.  325 

scrumptious  as  white  folks.  But,  law  sakes  !  Jeff  Wobbles, 
't  ain'  no  kin'  ob  'liance  till  I  see  dat  gole  an'  hab  some  ob 
it  too  !  " 

Jeff  had  to  succumb  like  many  a  higher- born  suitor  be 
fore  him,  with  the  added  chagrin  of  remembering  that  he 
had  first  suggested  the  purely  business-like  aspect  of  his 
motive. 

"  Berry  well ;  meet  me  here  ter-morrer  night  when  I 
whistle  like  a  whip-o'-will.  But  yer  ain'  so  smart  as  yer 
,tink  yer  are,  Suky.  Yer  'se  made  it  cl'ar  ter  me  dat  I  'se 
got  ter  keep  de  han'lin'  ob  dat  gole  or  you  '11  be  a-carryin' 
dis  'liance  business  too  far  !  If  I  gib  yer  gole,  I  expec'  yer 
ter  shine  up  an  be  'greeable-like  ter  me  ebbery  way  yer 
know  how.  Dat 's  only  fa'r,  doggoned  ef  it  ain'  !  "  and 
Jeff  spoke  in  a  very  aggrieved  tone. 

Wily  Suky  chucked  him  under  the  chin,  saying,  "  Show 
me  de  color  ob  de  gole  an'  de  'liance  corne  out  all  right." 
Then  she  retired,  believing  that  negotiations  had  proceeded 
far  enough  for  the  present. 

Jeff  went  home  feeling  that  he  had  been  forewarned  and 
forearmed.  Since  her  heart  responded  to  a  golden  key 
only,  he  would  keep  that  key  and  use  it  judiciously. 

During  the  early  hours  of  the  following  night  Jeff  was 
very  wary  and  soon  discovered  that  he  was  watched.  He 
coolly  slipped  the  collar  from  a  savage  dog,  and  soon  there 
was  a  stampede  from  a  neighboring  grove.  An  hour  after, 
when  all  had  become  quiet  again,  he  took  the  dog  and 
armed  with  an  axe,  started  out,  fully  resolved  on  breaking 
the  treasure-box  which  he  had  been  hoarding. 

The  late  moon  had  risen,  giving  to  Jeff  a  gnome- like 
aspect  as  he  dug  at  the  root  of  the  persimmon-tree.  The 
mysterious  box  soon  gleamed  with  a  pale  light  in  his  hand, 
like  the  leaden  casket  that  contained  Portia's  radiant  face.  • 


326          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Surely,  when  he  struck  the  "  open,  sesame "  blow,  that 
beauty  which  captivates  young  and  old  alike  would  dazzle 
his  eyes.  With  heart  now  devoid  of  all  compunction,  and 
exultant  in  anticipation,  he  struck  the  box,  shaving  off  the 
end  he  held  farthest  from  him.  An  "  ancient  fish-like 
smell "  filled  the  air;  Jeff  sank  on  the  ground  and  stared  at 
sardines  and  rancid  oil  dropping  instead  of  golden  dollars 
from  his  treasure-box.  They  scarcely  touched  the  ground 
before  the  dog  snapped  them  all  up. 

The  bewildered  negro  knew  not  what  to  think.  Had 
fish  been  the  original  contents  of  the  box ;  or  had  the 
soldier's  spook  transformed  the  gold  into  this  horrid  mess? 
One  thing,  however,  was  clear,  —  he  had  lost,  not  only  Suky, 
but  prestige.  The  yellow  girl  would  scorn  him,  and  tell 
of  his  preposterous  promises.  Mandy  had  been  offended 
beyond  hope,  and  he  would  become  the  laughing-stock 
and  byword  of  all  the  colored  boys  for  miles  around. 

"Bar's  nuffin  lef  fer  me  but  ter  put  out  fer  freedom," 
he  soliloquized ;  "  ki !  I  'se  a-gwine  ter  git  eben  wid  dat 
yallar  gal  yet.  I  '11  cut  stick  ter-morrer  night  and  she  '11 
tink  I  'sconded  alone,  totin'  de  box  wid  me,  and  dat  she 
was  too  sharp  in  dat  'liance  business." 

So  it  turned  out ;  Jeff  and  his  fiddle  vanished,  leaving 
nothing  to  sustain  Suky  under  the  gibes  of  her  associates 
except  the  ring,  which  she  eventually  learned  was  as  brazen 
as  her  own  ambition. 

Jeff  wandered  into  the  service  of  a  Union  officer  whose 
patience  he  tried  even  more  than  that  of  his  tolerant 
Southern  mistress ;  but  when  by  the  camp-fire  he  brought 
out  his  violin,  all  his  shortcomings  were  condoned. 


CAUGHT   ON   THE   EBB-TIDE. 


August  morning  was  bright  and  fair,  but  Herbert 
•••  Scofield's  brow  was  clouded.  He  had  wandered  off 
to  a  remote  part  of  the  grounds  of  a  summer  hotel  on  the 
Hudson,  and  seated  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  had  lapsed  into 
such  deep  thought  that  his  cigar  had  gone  out  and  the 
birds  were  becoming  bold  in  the  vicinity  of  his  motionless 
figure. 

It  was  his  vacation-time  and  he  had  come  to  the  country 
ostensibly  for  rest.  As  the  result,  he  found  himself  in  the 
worst  state  of  unrest  that  he  had  ever  known.  Minnie 
Madison,  a  young  lady  he  had  long  admired,  was  the  mag 
net  that  had  drawn  him  hither.  Her  arrival  had  preceded 
his  by  several  weeks ;  and  she  had  smiled  a  little  con 
sciously  when  in  looking  at  the  hotel  register  late  one  after 
noon  his  bold  chirography  met  her  eye. 

"  There  are  so  many  other  places  to  which  he  might  have 
gone,"  she  murmured. 

Her  smile,  however,  was  a  doubtful  one,  not  expressive  of 
gladness  and  entire  satisfaction.  In  mirthful  saucy  fashion 
her  thoughts  ran  on,  "  The  time  has  come  when  he  might 
have  a  respite  from  business.  Does  he  still  mean  business 
by  coming  here?  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  do,  although  the  popu 
lar  idea  seems  to  be  that  a  girl  should  have  no  vacation  in 


328          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

the  daily  effort  to  find  a  husband.  I  continually  disappoint 
the  good  people  by  insisting  that  the  husband  must  find 
me.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  Mr.  Scofield  is  looking  for 
me ;  but  there  are  some  kinds  of  property  which  cannot  be 
picked  up  and  carried  off,  nolens  volens,  when  found." 

Scofield  had  been  animated  by  no  such  clearly-defined 
purpose  as  he  was  credited  with  when  he  sought  the  summer 
resort  graced  by  Miss  Madison.  His  action  seemed  to  him 
tentative,  his  motive  ill-defined  even  in  his  own  conscious 
ness,  yet  it  had  been  strong  enough  to  prevent  any  hesi 
tancy.  He  knew  he  was  weary  from  a  long  year's  work. 
He  purposed  to  rest  and  take  life  very  leisurely,  and  he  had 
mentally  congratulated  himself  that  he  was  doing  a  wise 
thing  in  securing  proximity  to  Miss  Madison.  She  had 
evoked  his  admiration  in  New  York,  excited  more  than  a 
passing  interest,  but  he  felt  that  he  did  not  know  her  very 
well.  In  the  unconventional  life  now  in  prospect  he  could 
see  her  daily  and  permit  his  interest  to  be  dissipated  or 
deepened,  as  the  case  might  be,  while  he  remained,  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  word,  uncommitted.  It  was  a  very 
prudent  scheme  and  not  a  bad  one.  He  reasoned  justly, 
"  This  selecting  a  wife  is  no  bagatelle.  A  man  wishes  to 
know  something  more  about  a  woman  than  he  can  learn 
in  a  drawing-room  or  at  a  theatre  party." 

But  now  he  was  in  trouble.  He  had  been  unable  to 
maintain  this  judicial  aspect.  He  had  been  made  to  un 
derstand  at  the  outset  that  Miss  Madison  did  not  regard 
herself  as  a  proper  subject  for  deliberate  investigation,  and 
that  she  was  not  inclined  to  aid  in  his  researches.  So  far 
from  meeting  him  with  engaging  frankness  and  revealing  her 
innermost  soul  for  his  inspection,  he  found  her  as  elusive  as 
only  a  woman  of  tact  can  be  when  so  minded,  even  at  a 
place  where  people  meet  daily.  It  was  plain  to  him  from 


CAUGHT  ON  THE  EBB-TIDE.  329 

the  first  that  he  was  not  the  only  man  who  favored  her  with 
admiring  glances  ;  and  he  soon  discovered  that  young  Merri- 
weather  and  his  friend  Hackley  had  passed  beyond  the  neu 
tral  ground  of  non-committal.  He  set  himself  the  task  of 
learning  how  far  these  suitors  had  progressed  in  her  good 
graces ;  he  would  not  be  guilty  of  the  folly  of  giving  chase 
to  a  prize  already  virtually  captured.  This  too  had  proved 
a  failure.  Clearly,  would  he  know  what  Mr.  Merriweather 
and  Mr.  Hackley  were  to  Miss  Madison  he  must  acquire  the 
power  of  mind  reading.  Each  certainly  appeared  to  be  a 
very  good  friend  of  hers,  —  a  much  better  friend  than  he 
could  claim  to  be,  for  in  his  case  she  maintained  a  certain 
unapproachableness  which  perplexed  and  nettled  him. 

After  a  week  of  rest,  observation,  and  rather  futile  effort 
to  secure  a  reasonable  share  of  Miss  Madison's  society  and 
attention,  he  became  assured  that  he  was  making  no  pro 
gress  whatever  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  but  very  de 
cided  progress  in  a  condition  of  mind  and  heart  anything 
but  agreeable  should  the  affair  continue  so  one-sided.  He 
had  hoped  to  see  her  daily,  and  was  not  disappointed.  He 
had  intended  to  permit  his  mind  to  receive  such  impres 
sions  as  he  should  choose  ;  and  now  his  mind  asked  no  per 
mission  whatever,  but  without  volition  occupied  itself  with 
her  image  perpetually.  He  was  not  sure  whether  she  satis 
fied  his  preconceived  ideals  of  what  a  wife  should  be  or 
not,  for  she  maintained  such  a  firm  reticence  in  regard  to 
herself  that  he  could  put  his  finger  on  no  affinities.  She 
left  no  doubt  as  to  her  intelligence,  but  beyond  that  she 
would  not  reveal  herself  to  him.  He  was  almost  satisfied 
that  she  discouraged  him  utterly  and  that  it  would  be  wiser 
to  depart  before  his  feelings  became  more  deeply  involved. 
At  any  rate  he  had  better  do  this  or  else  make  love  in  dead 
earnest.  Which  course  should  he  adopt? 


330          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

There  came  a  day  which  brought  him  to  a  decision. 

A  party  had  been  made  up  for  an  excursion  into  the 
Highlands,  Miss  Madison  being  one  of  the  number.  She 
was  a  good  pedestrian  and  rarely  missed  a  chance  for  a 
ramble  among  the  hills.  Scofield's  two  rivals  occasionally 
got  astray  with  her  in  the  perplexing  wood-roads,  but  he 
never  succeeded  in  securing  such  good  fortune.  On  this 
occasion,  as  they  approached  a  woodchopper's  cottage  (or 
rather,  hovel) ,  there  were  sounds  of  acute  distress  within,  — 
the  piercing  cries  of  a  child  evidently  in  great  pain.  There 
was  a  moment  of  hesitancy  in  the  party,  and  then  Miss 
Madison's  graceful  indifference  vanished  utterly.  As  she 
ran  hastily  to  the  cabin,  Scofield  felt  that  now  probably  was 
a  chance  for  more  than  mere  observation,  and  he  kept  be 
side  her.  An  ugly  cur  sought  to  bar  entrance  ;  but  his  vig 
orous  kick  sent  it  howling  away.  She  gave  him  a  quick 
pleased  look  as  they  entered.  A  slatternly  woman  was  try 
ing  to  soothe  a  little  boy,  who  at  all  her  attempts  only 
writhed  and  shrieked  the  more.  "  I  dunno  what  ails  the 
young  one,"  she  said.  "  I  found  him  a  moment  ago  yellin' 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  Suthin  's  the  matter  with  his  leg." 

"Yes,"  cried  Miss  Madison,  delicately  feeling  of  the 
member,  —  an  operation  which,  even  under  her  gentle 
touch,  caused  increased  outcry,  "  it  is  evidently  broken. 
Let  me  take  him  on  my  lap  ;  "  and  Scofield  saw  that  her 
face  had  softened  into  the  tenderest  pity. 

"I  will  bring  a  surgeon  at  the  earliest  possible  moment," 
exclaimed  Scofield,  turning  to  go. 

Again  she  gave  him  an  approving  glance  which  warmed 
his  heart.  "  The  ice  is  broken  between  us  now,"  he  thought, 
as  he  broke  through  the  group  gathering  at  the  open  door. 

Never  before  had  he  made  such  time  down  a  mountain, 
for  he  had  a  certain  kind  of  consciousness  that  he  was  not 


CAUGHT  ON  THE  EBB-TIDE.  331 

only  going  after  the  doctor,  but  also  after  the  girl.  Securing 
a  stout  horse  and  wagon  at  the  hotel,  he  drove  furiously  for 
the  surgeon,  explained  the  urgency,  and  then,  with  the  rural 
healer  at  his  side,  almost  killed  the  horse  in  returning. 

He  found  his  two  rivals  at  the  cabin  door,  the  rest  of  the 
party  having  gone  on.  Miss  Madison  came  out  quickly. 
An  evanescent  smile  flitted  across  her  face  as  she  saw  his 
kindled  eyes  and  the  reeking  horse,  which  stood  trembling 
and  with  bowed  head.  His  ardor  was  a  little  dampened 
when  she  went  directly  to  the  poor  beast  and  said,  "  This 
horse  is  a  rather  severe  indictment  against  you,  Mr.  Sco- 
field.  There  was  need  of  haste,  but  —  "  and  she  paused 
significantly. 

"Yes,"  added  the  doctor,  springing  out,  '-I  never  saw 
such  driving  !  It 's  lucky  our  necks  are  not  broken." 

"  You  are  all  right,  Doctor,  and  ready  for  your  work," 
Scofield  remarked  brusquely.  "  As  for  the  horse,  I  '11  soon 
bring  him  around  ;  "  and  he  rapidly  began  to  unhitch  the 
over-driven  animal. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  Miss  Madison  asked 
curiously. 

"  Rub  him  into  as  good  shape  as  when  he  started." 

She  turned  away  to  hide  a  smile  as  she  thought,  "  He  has 
waked  up  at  last." 

The  boy  was  rendered  unconscious,  and  his  leg  speedily 
put  in  the  way  of  restoration.  "  He  will  do  very  well  now 
if  my  directions  are  carried  out  strictly,"  the  physician 
was  saying  when  Scofield  entered. 

Mr.  Merriweather  and  Mr.  Hackley  stood  rather  helplessly 
in  the  background  and  were  evidently  giving  more  thought 
to  the  fair  nurse  than  to  the  patient.  The  mother  was  alter 
nating  between  lamentations  and  invocations  of  good  on  the 
"young  leddy's  "  head.  Finding  that  he  would  come  in  for 


332  TAKE  A'  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

a  share  of  the  latter,  Scofield  retreated  again.  Miss  Madison 
walked  quietly  out,  and  looking  critically  at  the  horse,  re 
marked,  "  You  have  kept  your  word  very  well,  Mr.  Scofield. 
The  poor  creature  does  look  much  improved."  She  evi 
dently  intended  to  continue  her  walk  with  the  two  men  in 
waiting,  for  she  said  demurely  with  an  air  of  dismissal,  "  You 
will  have  the  happy  consciousness  of  having  done  a  good 
deed  this  morning." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Scofield,  in  significant  undertone  ;  "  you, 
of  all  others,  Miss  Madison,  know  how  inordinately  happy 
I  shall  be  in  riding  back  to  the  village  with  the  doctor." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  a  little  well-feigned  surprise  at 
his  words,  then  turned  away. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  day  he  was  unable  to  see 
her  alone  for  a  moment,  or  to  obtain  any  further  reason  to 
believe  that  the  ice  was  in  reality  broken  between  them. 
But  his  course  was  no  longer  noncommittal,  even  to  the 
most  careless  observer.  The  other  guests  of  the  house 
smiled ;  and  Mr.  Merriweather  and  Mr.  Hackley  looked 
askance  at  one  who  threw  their  assiduous  attentions 
quite  into  the  shade.  Miss  Madison  maintained  her  com 
posure,  was  oblivious  as  far  as  possible,  and  sometimes 
when  she  could  not  appear  blind,  looked  a  little  surprised 
and  even  offended. 

He  had  determined  to  cast  prudence  and  circumlocution 
to  the  winds.  On  the  morning  following  the  episode  in  the 
mountains  he  was  waiting  to  meet  her  when  she  came  down 
to  breakfast.  "  I  Ve  seen  that  boy,  Miss  Madison,  and  he  's 
doing  well." 

"\Vhat!  so  early?  You  are  a  very  kind-hearted  man, 
Mr.  Scofield." 

"  About  as  they  average.  That  you  are  kind-hearted  I 
know,  —  at  least  to  every  one  except  me,  —  for  I  saw  your 


CAUGHT  ON  THE  EBB-TIDE.  333 

expression  as  you  examined  the  little  fellow's  injury  yester 
day.  You  thought  only  of  the  child  — 

"  I  hope  you  did  also,  Mr.  Scofield,"  she  replied  with 
an  exasperating  look  of  surprise. 

"  You  know  well  I  did  not,"  he  answered  bluntly.  "  I 
thought  it  would  be  well  worth  while  to  have  my  leg  broken 
if  you  would  look  at  me  in  the  same  way." 

"  Truly,  Mr.  Scofieid,  I  fear  you  are  not  as  kind-hearted 
as  I  supposed  you  to  be ;  "  and  then  she  turned  to  greet 
Mr.  Merriweather. 

"Won't  you  let  me  drive  you  up  to  see  the  boy?" 
interposed  Scofield,  boldly. 

"  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  promised  to  go  up  with  the  doctor  this 
morning." 

And  so  affairs  went  on.  He  thought  at  times  her 'color 
quickened  a  little  when  he  approached  suddenly ;  he  fancied 
that  he  occasionally  surprised  a  half-wistful,  half-mirthful 
glance  but  was  not  sure.  He  knew  that  she  was  as  well 
aware  of  his  intentions  and  wishes  as  if  he  had  proclaimed 
them  through  a  speaking-trumpet.  His  only  assured  ground 
of  comfort  was  that  neither  Mr.  Merriweather  nor  Mr. 
Hackley  had  yet  won  the  coveted  prize,  though  they  evi 
dently  were  receiving  far  greater  opportunities  to  push  their 
suit  than  he  had  been  favored  with. 

At  last  his  vacation  was  virtually  at  an  end.  But  two 
more  days  would  elapse  before  he  must  be  at  his  desk  again 
in  the  city.  And  now  we  will  go  back  to  the  time  when  we 
found  him  that  early  morning  brooding  over  his  prospect:, 
remote  from  observation.  What  should  he  do,  —  propose 
by  letter?  "No,"  he  said  after  much  cogitation.  ''I  can 
see  that  little  affected  look  of  surprise  with  which  she 
would  read  my  plain  declaration  of  what  she  knows  so 
well.  Shall  I  force  a  private  interview  with  her?  The 


334         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

very  word  '  force,'  which  I  have  unconsciously  used,  teaches 
me  the  folly  of  this  course.  She  does  n't  care  a  rap  for  me, 
and  I  should  have  recognized  the  truth  long  ago.  I  '11  go 
back  to  the  hotel  and  act  toward  her  precisely  as  she  has 
acted  toward  me.  I  can  then  at  least  take  back  to  town 
a  little  shred  of  dignity." 

He  appeared  not  to  see  her  when  she  came  down  to 
breakfast.  After  the  meal  was  over  he  sat  on  the  piazza 
engrossed  in  the  morning  paper.  An  excursion  party  for 
the  mountains  was  forming.  He  merely  bowed  politely  as 
she  passed  him  to  join  it,  but  he  ground  his  teeth  as  he  saw 
Merriweather  and  Hackley  escorting  her  away.  When  they 
were  out  of  sight  he  tossed  the  paper  aside  and  went  down 
to  the  river,  purposing  to  row  the  fever  out  of  his  blood. 
He  was  already  satisfied  how  difficult  his  tactics  would  be 
should  he  continue  to  see  her,  and  he  determined  to  be 
absent  all  day,  to  so  tire  himself  out  that  exhaustion  would 
bring  early  sleep  on  his  return. 

Weary  and  leaden- spirited  enough  he  was,  as  late  in  the 
afternoon  he  made  his  way  back,  but  firm  in  sudden  resolve 
to  depart  on  an  early  train  in  the  morning  and  never  vol 
untarily  to  see  the  obdurate  lady  of  his  affections  again. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  about  sinking  he  approached  a  small 
wooded  island  about  half  a  mile  from  the  boat-house,  and 
was  surprised  to  notice  a  rowboat  high  and  dry  upon  the 
beach.  "  Some  one  has  forgotten  that  the  tide  is  going 
out,'.'  he  thought,  as  he  passed  ;  but  it  was  no  affair  of  his. 

A  voice  called  faintly,  "  Mr.  Scofield  !  " 

He  started  at  the  familiar  tones,  and  looked  again. 
Surely  that  was  Miss  Madison  standing  by  the  prow  of  the 
stranded  skiff !  He  knew  well  indeed  it  was  she ;  and  he 
put  his  boat  about  with  an  energy  not  in  keeping  with  his 
former  languid  strokes.  Then,  recollecting  himself,  he 


CAUGHT  ON  THE  EBB-TIDE.  335 

became  pale  with  the  self-control  he  purposed  to  maintain. 
"She  is  in  a  scrape,"  he  thought;  "and  calls  upon  me  as 
she  would  upon  any  one  else  to  get  her  out  of  it." 

Weariness  and  discouragement  inclined  him  to  be  some 
what  reckless  and  brusque  in  his  words  and  manner.  Under 
the  compulsion  of  circumstances  she  who  would  never  gra 
ciously  accord  him  opportunities  must  now  be  alone  with 
him  j  but  as  a  gentleman,  he  could  not  take  advantage  of 
her  helplessness,  to  plead  his  cause,  and  he  felt  a  sort  of 
rage  that  he  should  be  mocked  with  an  apparent  chance 
which  was  in  fact  no  chance  at  all. 

His  boat  stranded  several  yards  from  the  shore.  Throw 
ing  down  his  oars,  he  rose  and  faced  her.  Was  it  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  which  made  her  face  so  rosy,  or  was 
it  embarrassment? 

"  I  'm  in  a  dilemma,  Mr.  Scofield,"  Miss  Madison  began 
hesitatingly. 

"And  you  would  rather  be  in  your  boat,"  he  added. 

"  That  would  not  help  me  any,  seeing  where  my  boat  is. 
I  have  done  such  a  stupid  thing  !  I  stole  away  here  to 
finish  a  book,  and  —  well  —  I  did  n't  notice  that  the  tide 
was  running  out.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  'm  going 
to  do." 

Scofield  put  his  shoulder  to  an  oar  and  tried  to  push  his 
craft  to  what  deserved  the  name  of  shore,  but  could  make 
little  headway.  He  was  glad  to  learn  by  the  effort,  however, 
that  the  black  mud  was  not  unfathomable  in  depth.  Hastily 
reversing  his  action,  he  began  pushing  his  boat  back  into 
the  water. 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Scofield,  you  do  not  intend  to  leave  me," 
began  Miss  Madison. 

"  Surely  not,"  he  replied ;  "  but  then,  since  you  are  so 
averse  to  my  company,  I  must  make  sure  that  my  boat 


336         TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER   STORIES. 

does  not  become  as  fast  as  yours  on  this  ebb-tide,  otherwise 
we  should  both  have  to  wait  till  the  flood." 

"  Oh,  beg  pardon  !  I  now  understand.  But  how  can 
you  reach  me?  " 

"Wade,"  he  replied  coolly,  proceeding  to  take  off  his 
shoes  and  stockings. 

"What  !  through  that  horrid  black  mud?  " 

"I  couldn't  leap  that  distance,  Miss  Madison." 

"  It 's  too  bad  !  I  'm  so  provoked  with  myself  !  The 
mud  may  be  very  deep,  or  there  may  be  a  quicksand  or 
something." 

"  In  which  case  I  should  merely  disappear  a  little  earlier  ;  " 
and  he  sprang  overboard  up  to  his  knees,  dragged  the  boat 
till  it  was  sufficiently  fast  in  the  ooze  to  be  stationary, 
then  he  waded  ashore. 

"  Well,"  she  said  with  a  little  deprecatory  laugh,  "  it 's 
a  comfort  not  to  be  alone  on  a  desert  island." 

"  Indeed  !  Can  I  be  welcome  under  any  circumstances?  " 

"  Truly,  Mr.  Scofield,  you  know  that  you  were  never  more 
welcome.  It 's  very  kind  of  you." 

"  Any  man  would  be  glad  to  come  to  your  aid.  It  is 
merely  your  misfortune  that  I  happen  to  be  the  one." 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  regard  it  as  a  very  great  misfortune. 
You  proved  in  the  case  of  that  little  boy  that  you  can  act 
very  energetically." 

"  And  get  lectured  for  my  intemperate  zeal.  Well,  Miss 
Madison,  I  cannot  make  a  very  pleasing  spectacle  with 
blackamoor  legs,  and  it 's  time  I  put  my  superfluous  energy 
to  some  use.  Suppose  you  get  in  your  boat,  and  I  '11  try  to 
push  it  off." 

She  complied  with  a  troubled  look  in  her  face.  He 
pushed  till  the  veins  knotted  on  his  forehead.  At  this  she 
sprang  out,  exclaiming,  "You  '11  burst  a  blood-vessel." 


CAUGHT  ON  THE  EBB-TIDE.  337 

"  That 's  only  a  phase  of  a  ruptured  heart,  and  you  are 
used  to  such  phenomena." 

"  It 's  too  bad  for  you  to  talk  in  that  way,"  she  cried. 

"  It  certainly  is.     I  will  now  attend  strictly  to  business." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  can  do." 

"Carry  you  out  to  my  boat,  —  that  is  all  I  can  do." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Scofield  !  " 

"  Can  you  suggest  anything  else  ?  " 

She  looked  dubiously  at  the  intervening  black  mud,  and 
was  silent. 

"  I  could  go  up  to  the  hotel  and  bring  Mr.  Merriweather 
and  Mr.  Hackley." 

She  turned  away  to  hide  her  tears. 

"  Or  I  could  go  after  a  brawny  boatman  ;  but  delay  is 
serious,  for  the  tide  is  running  out  fast  and  the  stretch  of 
mud  growing  wider.  Can  you  not  imagine  me  Mike  or 
Tim,  or  some  fellow  of  that  sort." 

"No,  I  can't." 

"Then  perhaps  you  wish  me  to  go  for  Mike  or  Tim?" 

"  But  the  tide  is  running  out  so  fast,  you  said." 

"Yes,  and  it  will  soon  be  dark." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  and  there  was  distress  in  her  tones. 

He  now  said  kindly,  "  Miss  Madison,  I  wish  that  like  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  I  had  a  mantle  large  enough  for  you  to  walk 
over.  You  can  at  least  imagine  that  I  am  a  gentleman, 
that  you  may  soon  be  at  the  hotel,  and  no  one  ever  be  any 
the  wiser  that  you  had  to  choose  between  me  and  the  deep 
—  ah,  well  —  mud." 

"There  is  no  reason  for  such  an  allusion,  Mr.  Scofield." 

"  Well,  then,  that  you  had  no  other  choice." 

"  That 's  better.  But  how  in  the  world  can  you  manage 
it?" 

"  You  will  have  to  put  your  arm  around  my  neck." 

22 


338          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"Oh!" 

"  You  would  put  your  arm  around  a  post,  would  n't  you  ?  " 
he  asked  with  more  than  his  old  brusqueness. 

"Yes-s;  but  —  " 

"  But  the  tide  is  going  out.  My  own  boat  will  soon  be 
fast.  Dinner  will  grow  cold  at  the  hotel,  and  you  are  only 
the  longer  in  dispensing  with  me.  You  must  consider  the 
other  dire  alternatives." 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  that  you  were  in  danger  of  losing  a  warm 
dinner." 

"  You  know  I  have  lost  too  much  to  think  of  that  or  much 
else.  But  there  is  no  need  of  satire,  Miss  Madison.  I  will 
do  whatever  you  wish.  That  truly  is  carte  blanche  enough 
even  for  this  occasion." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  satirical.  I  —  I  —  Well,  have 
your  own  way." 

"  Not  if  you  prefer  some  other  way." 

"  You  have  shown  that  practically  there  is  n't  any  other 
way.  I  'm  sorry  that  my  misfortune,  or  fault  rather,  should 
also  be  your  misfortune.  You  don't  know  how  heavy  — ' 

"  I  soon  will,  and  you  must  endure  it  all  with  such  grace 
as  you  can.  Put  your  arm  around  my  neck,  so  —  oh,  that 
will  never  do  !  Well,  you  '11  hold  tight  enough  when  I  'm 
floundering  in  the  mud." 

Without  further  ado  he  picked  her  up,  and  started  rap 
idly  for  his  boat.  Stepping  on  a  smooth  stone  he  nearly 
fell,  and  her  arm  did  tighten  decidedly. 

"  If  you  try  to  go  so  fast,"  she  said,  "  you  will  fall." 

"  I  was  only  seeking  to  shorten  your  ordeal,  but  for  obvi 
ous  reasons  must  go  slowly;  "  and  he  began  feeling  his  way. 

"  Mr.  Scofield,  am  I  not  very  heavy?  "  she  asked  softly. 

"  Not  as  heavy  as  my  heart,  and  you  know  it." 

"I  'm  sure  I  —  " 


CAUGHT  ON  THE  EBB-TIDE.  339 

"  No,  you  are  not  to  blame.  Moths  have  scorched  their 
wings  before  now,  and  will  always  continue  to  do  so." 

Her  head  rested  slightly  against  his  shoulder ;  her  breath 
fanned  his  cheek;  her  eyes,  soft  and  lustrous,  sought  his. 
But  he  looked  away  gloomy  and  defiant,  and  she  felt  his 
grasp  tighten  vice-like  around  her.  "  I  shall  not  affect  any 
concealment  of  the  feelings  which  she  has  recognized  so 
often,  nor  shall  I  ask  any  favors,"  he  thought.  "There," 
he  said,  as  he  placed  her  in  his  boat,  "  you  are  safe  enough 
now.  Now  go  aft  while  I  push  off." 

When  she  was  seated  he  exerted  himself  almost  as  greatly 
as  before,  and  the  boat  gradually  slid  into  the  water.  He 
sprang  in  and  took  the  oars. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  put  on  your  shoes  and  stockings?  " 

"  Certainly,  when  I  put  you  ashore." 

"  Won't  that  be  a  pretty  certain  way  of  revealing  the 
plight  in  which  you  found  me?" 

"  Pardon  my  stupidity ;  I  was  preoccupied  with  the 
thought  of  relieving  you  from  the  society  which  you  have 
hitherto  avoided  so  successfully ;  "  and  bending  over  his 
shoes  he  tied  them  almost  savagely. 

There  was  a  wonderful  degree  of  mirth  and  tenderness  in 
her  eyes  as  she  watched  him.  They  had  floated  by  a  little 
point ;  and  as  he  raised  his  head  he  saw  a  form  which 
he  recognized  as  Mr.  Merriweather  rowing  toward  them. 
"There  comes  one  of  your  shadows,"  he  said  mockingly. 
"  Be  careful  how  you  exchange  boats  when  he  comes  along 
side.  I  will  give  you  no  help  in  such  a  case." 

She  looked  hastily  over  her  shoulder  at  the  approaching 
oarsman.  "  I  think  it  will  be  safer  to  remain  in  your  boat," 
she  said. 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  entirely  safe,"  he  replied  bitterly. 

"  Mr.  Merriweather  must  have  seen  you  carrying  me." 


340         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  That 's  another  thing  which  I  can't  help." 

"Mr.  Scofield,"  she  began  softly. 

He  arrested  his  oars,  and  turned  wondering  eyes  to  hers. 
They  were  sparkling  with  mirth  as  she  continued,  "  Are  you 
satisfied  that  a  certain  young  woman  whom  you  once  watched 
very  narrowly  is  entirely  to  your  mind?  " 

He  caught  her  mirthful  glance  and  misunderstood  her. 
With  dignity  he  answered,  "  I  'm  not  the  first  man  who 
blundered  to  his  cost,  though  probably  it  would  have  made 
no  difference.  You  must  do  me  the  justice,  however,  to 
admit  that  I  did  not  maintain  the  role  of  observer  very 
long,  —  that  I  wooed  you  so  openly  that  every  one  was 
aware  of  my  suit.  Is  it  not  a  trifle  cruel  to  taunt  me  after 
I  had  made  such  ample  amends?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Merriweather —  " 

"Undoubtedly." 

"  Since  he  has  seen  me  with  my  arm  around  your  neck, 
—  you  know  I  could  n't  help  it,  —  perhaps  he  might  row 
the  other  way  if — if — well,  if  he  saw  you  —  what  shall  I 
say  —  sitting  over  here  —  by  me  —  or  —  Somehow  I  don't 
feel  very  hungry,  and  I  wouldn't  mind  spending  another 
hour  —  " 

Scofield  nearly  upset  the  boat  in  his  precipitous  effort  to 
gain  a  seat  beside  her  —  and  Mr.  Merriweather  did  row 
another  way. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN  WAR  TIMES. 


TT  was  the  beginning  of  a  battle.  The  skirmish  line  of 
the  Union  advance  was  sweeping  rapidly  over  a  rough 
f  mountainous  region  in  the  South,  and  in  his  place  on  the 
.  extreme  left  of  this  line  was  Private  Anson  Marlow.  Tall 
ji  trees  rising  from  underbrush,  rocks,  bowlders,  gulches  worn 
I  by  spring  torrents,  were  the  characteristics  of  the  field,  which 
I  was  in  wild  contrast  with  the  parade-grounds  on  which  the 
jj  combatants  had  first  learned  the  tactics  of  war.  The  ma- 
;  jority,  however,  of  those  now  in  the  ranks  had  since  been 
ji  drilled  too  often  under  like  circumstances,  and  with  lead 
J  and  iron  shotted  guns,  not  to  know  their  duty,  and  the  lines 
[i  of  battle  were  as  regular  as  the  broken  country  allowed. 
B  So  far  as  many  obstacles  permitted,  Marlow  kept  his  proper 
I  distance  from  the  others  on  the  line  and  fired  coolly  when 
I  he  caught  glimpses  of  the  retreating  Confederate  skirmishers. 
They  were  retiring  with  ominous  readiness  toward  a  wooded 
I  height  which  the  enemy  occupied  with  a  force  of  unknown 
strength.  That  strength  was  soon  manifested  in  temporary 
j  disaster  to  the  Union  forces,  which  were  driven  back  with 
|  heavy  loss. 

Neither  the  battle  nor  its  fortunes  are  the  objects  of  our 
present  concern,  but  rather  the  fate  of  Private  Marlow.  The 
tide  of  battle  drifted  away  and  left  the  soldier  desperately 
wounded  in  a  narrow  ravine,  through  which  babbled  a  small 


342          TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

stream.  Excepting  the  voices  of  his  wife  and  children,  no 
music  had  ever  sounded  so  sweetly  in  his  ears.  With  great 
difficulty  he  crawled  to  a  little  bubbling  pool  formed  by  a 
tiny  cascade  and  encircling  stones,  and  partially  slaked  his 
intolerable  thirst. 

He  believed  he  was  dying,  —  bleeding  to  death.  The 
very  thought  blunted  his  faculties  for  a  time ;  and  he  was 
conscious  of  little  beyond  a  dull  wonder.  Could  it  be  pos 
sible  that  the  tragedy  of  his  death  was  enacting  in  that 
peaceful,  secluded  nook  ?  Could  Nature  be  so  indifferent  or 
so  unconscious  if  it  were  true  that  he  was  soon  to  lie  there 
dead  ?  He  saw  the  speckled  trout  lying  motionless  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pool,  the  gray  squirrels  sporting  in  the  boughs 
over  his  head.  The  sunlight  shimmered  and  glinted  through 
the  leaves,  flecking  with  light  his  prostrate  form.  He  clipped 
his  hand  in  the  blood  that  had  welled  from  his  side,  and  it 
fell  in  rubies  from  his  ringers.  Could  that  be  his  blood,  — 
his  life-blood  ;  and  would  it  soon  all  ooze  away?  Could  it 
be  that  death  was  coming  through  all  the  brightness  of  that 
summer  afternoon? 

From  a  shadowed  tree  farther  up  the  glen,  a  wood-thrush 
suddenly  began  its  almost  unrivalled  song.  The  familiar 
melody,  heard  so  often  from  his  cottage-porch  in  the  June 
twilight,  awoke  him  to  the  bitter  truth.  His  wife  had  then 
sat  beside  him,  while  his  little  ones  played  here  and  there 
among  the  trees  and  shrubbery.  They  would  hear  the  same 
song  to-  day ;  he  would  never  hear  it  again.  That  counted 
for  little ;  but  the  thought  of  their  sitting  behind  the  vines 
and  listening  to  their  favorite  bird,  spring  after  spring  and 
summer  after  summer,  and  he  ever  absent,  overwhelmed 
him. 

"  Oh,  Gertrude,  my  wife,  my  wife  !  Oh,  my  children  !  "  he 
groaned. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR   TIMES.  343 

His  breast  heaved  with  a  great  sigh ;  the  blood  welled 
afresh  from  his  wound ;  what  seemed  a  mortal  weakness 
crept  over  him ;  and  he  thought  he  died. 


"  Say,  Eb,  is  he  done  gone?  " 

"  'Clar  to  grashus  if  I  know.     Tears  mighty  like  it." 

These  words  were  spoken  by  two  stout   negroes,  who 

had   stolen   to   the   battle-field  as  the    sounds  of  conflict 

died    away. 

"  I  'm  doggoned  if  I  tink  dat  he  's   dead.      He  's  only 

swoonded,"  asserted  the  man  addressed  as  Eb.     "T  won't 

do  to  lebe  'im  here  to  die,  Zack." 

"  Sartin  not ;  we  'd  hab  bad  luck  all  our  days." 

"  I  reckon  ole  man  Pearson  will  keep  him  ;  and  his  wife's 

a  po'ful  nuss." 

"  Pearson  orter ;  he  's  a  Unioner." 

"  S'pose  we  try  him  ;  't  ain't  so  bery  fur  off." 

On  the  morning  of  the  24th  of  December,  Mrs.  Anson 
Marlow  sat  in  the  living-room  of  her  cottage,  that  stood 
well  out  in  the  suburbs  of  a  Northern  town.  Her  eyes  were 
hollow  and  full  of  trouble  that  seemed  almost  beyond  tears, 
and  the  bare  room,  that  had  been  stripped  of  nearly  every 
appliance  and  suggestion  of  comfort,  but  too  plainly  indi 
cated  one  of  the  causes.  Want  was  stamped  on  her  thin 
face,  that  once  had  been  so  full  and  pretty ;  poverty  in  its 
bitter  extremity  was  unmistakably  shown  by  the  uncarpeted 
floor,  the  meagre  fire,  and  scanty  furniture.  It  was  a  period 
of  depression ;  work  had  been  scarce,  and  much  of  the 
time  she  had  been  too  ill  and  feeble  to  do  more  than  care 
for  her  children.  Away  back  in  August  her  resources  had 
been  running  low;  but  she  had  daily  expected  the  long 


344         TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

arrears  of  pay  which  her  husband  would  receive  as  soon  as 
the  exigencies  of  the  campaign  permitted.  Instead  of  these 
funds,  so  greatly  needed,  came  the  tidings  of  a  Union  defeat, 
with  her  husband's  name  down  among  the  missing.  Be 
yond  that  brief  mention,  so  horrible  in  its  vagueness,  she 
had  never  heard  a  word  from  the  one  who  not  only  sustained 
her  home,  but  also  her  heart.  Was  he  languishing  in  a 
Southern  prison,  or,  mortally  wounded,  had  he  lingered  out 
some  terrible  hours  on  that  wild  battle-field,  a  brief  descrip 
tion  of  which  had  been  so  dwelt  upon  by  her  morbid  fancy 
that  it  had  become  like  one  of  the  scenes  in  Dante's  "  In 
ferno  "  ?  For  a  long  time  she  could  not  and  would  not 
believe  that  such  an  overwhelming  disaster  had  befallen 
her  and  her  children,  although  she  knew  that  similar  losses 
had  come  to  thousands  of  others.  Events  that  the  world 
regards  as  not  only  possible  but  probable  are  often  so  terri 
ble  in  their  personal  consequences  that  we  shrink  from  even 
the  bare  thought  of  their  occurrence. 

If  Mrs.  Marlow  had  been  told  from  the  first  that  her  hus 
band  was  dead,  the  shock  resulting  would  not  have  been  so 
injurious  as  the  suspense  that  robbed  her  of  rest  for  days, 
weeks,  and  months.  She  haunted  the  post-office,  and  if  a 
stranger  was  seen  coming  up  the  street  toward  her  cottage 
she  watched  feverishly  for  his  turning  in  at  her  gate  with 
the  tidings  of  her  husband's  safety.  Night  after  night  she 
lay  awake,  hoping,  praying  that  she  might  hear  his  step 
returning  on  a  furlough  to  which  wounds  or  sickness  had 
entitled  him.  The  natural  and  inevitable  result  was  illness 
and  nervous  prostration. 

Practical  neighbors  had  told  her  that  her  course  was  all 
wrong ;  that  she  should  be  resigned  and  even  cheerful  for 
her  children's  sake ;  that  she  needed  to  sleep  well  and  live 
well,  in  order  that  she  might  have  strength  to  provide  for 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN   WAR    TIMES  345 

them.  She  would  make  pathetic  attempts  to  follow  this 
sound  and  thrifty  advice,  but  suddenly  when  at  her  work  or 
in  her  troubled  sleep,  that  awful  word  "  missing "  would 
pierce  her  heart  like  an  arrow,  and  she  would  moan,  and  at 
times  in  the  depths  of  her  anguish  cry  out,  "  Oh,  where  is 
he?  Shall  I  ever  see  him  again?  " 

But  the  unrelenting  demands  of  life  are  made  as  surely 
upon  the  breaking  as  upon  the  happy  heart.  She  and  her 
children  must  have  food,  clothing,  and  shelter.  Her  illness 
and  feebleness  at  last  taught  her  that  she  must  not  yield  to 
her  grief,  except  so  far  as  she  was  unable  to  suppress  it ; 
that  for  the  sake  of  those  now  seemingly  dependent  upon 
her,  she  must  rally  every  shattered  nerve  and  every  relaxed 
muscle.  With  a  heroism  far  beyond  that  of  her  husband 
and  his  comrades  in  the  field,  she  sought  to  fight  the  wolf 
from  the  door,  or  at  least  to  keep  him  at  bay.  Although 
the  struggle  seemed  a  hopeless  one,  she  patiently  did  her 
best  from  day  to  day,  eking  out  her  scanty  earnings  by  the 
sale  or  pawn  of  such  of  her  household  goods  as  she  could 
best  spare.  She  felt  that  she  would  do  anything  rather  than 
reveal  her  poverty  or  accept  charity.  Some  help  was  more 
or  less  kindly  offered,  but  beyond  such  aid  as  one  neigh 
bor  may  receive  of  another,  she  had  said  gently  but  firmly, 
"  Not  yet." 

The  Marlows  were  comparative  strangers  in  the  city  where 
they  had  resided.  Her  husband  had  been  a  teacher  in  one 
of  its  public  schools,  and  his  salary  small.  Patriotism  had 
been  his  motive  for  entering  the  army,  and  while  it  had 
cost  him  a  mighty  struggle  to  leave  his  family,  he  felt  that 
he  had  no  more  reason  to  hold  back  than  thousands  of 
others.  He  believed  that  he  could  still  provide  for  those 
dependent  upon  him,  and  if  he  fell,  those  for  whom  he  died 
would  not  permit  his  widow  and  children  to  suffer.  But 


346          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

the  first  popular  enthusiasm  for  the  war  had  largely  died 
out ;  the  city  was  full  of  widows  and  orphans ;  there  was 
depression  of  spirit,  stagnation  in  business,  and  a  very  gen 
eral  disposition  on  the  part  of  those  who  had  means,  to 
take  care  of  themselves,  and  provide  for  darker  days  that 
might  be  in  the  immediate  future.  Sensitive,  retiring  Mrs. 
Marlow  was  not  the  one  to  push  her  claims  or  reveal  her 
need.  Moreover,  she  could  never  give  up  the  hope  that 
tidings  from  her  husband  might  at  any  time  bring  relief 
and  safety. 

But  the  crisis  had  come  at  last ;  and  on  this  dreary 
December  day  she  was  face  to  face  with  absolute  want. 
The  wolf,  with  his  gaunt  eyes,  was  crouched  beside  her 
cold  hearth.  A  pittance  owed  to  her  for  work  had  not 
been  paid.  The  little  food  left  in  the  house  had  furnished 
the  children  an  unsatisfying  breakfast ;  she  had  eaten  noth 
ing.  On  the  table  beside  her  lay  a  note  from  the  agent  of 
the  estate  of  which  her  home  was  a  part,  bidding  her  call 
that  morning.  She  knew  why,  —  the  rent  was  two  months 
in  arrears.  It  seemed  like  death  to  leave  the  house  in 
which  her  husband  had  placed  her,  and  wherein  she  had 
spent  her  happiest  days.  It  stood  well  away  from  the 
crowded  town.  The  little  yard  and  garden,  with  their 
trees,  vines,  and  shrubbery,  some  of  which  her  husband 
had  planted,  were  all  dear  from  association.  In  the  rear 
there  was  a  grove  and  open  fields,  which,  though  not  be 
longing  to  the  cottage,  were  not  forbidden  to  the  chil 
dren  ;  and  they  formed  a  wonderland  of  delight  in  spring, 
summer,  and  fall.  Must  she  take  her  active,  restless  boy 
Jamie,  the  image  of  his  father,  into  a  crowded  tenement  ? 
Must  golden-haired  Susie,  with  her  dower  of  beauty,  be 
imprisoned  in  one  close  room,  or  else  be  exposed  to  the 
evil  of  corrupt  association  just  beyond  the  threshold? 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR    TIMES.  347 

Moreover,  her  retired  home  had  become  a  refuge.  Here 
she  could  hide  her  sorrow  and  poverty.  Here  she  could 
touch  what  he  had  touched,  and  sit  during  the  long  winter 
evenings  in  his  favorite  corner  by  the  fire.  Around  her, 
within  and  without,  were  the  little  appliances  for  her  com 
fort  which  his  hands  had  made.  How  could  she  leave  all 
this  and  live?  Deep  in  her  heart  also  the  hope  would 
linger  that  he  would  come  again  and  seek  her  where  he  had 
left  her. 

"O  God!"  she  cried  suddenly.  "Thou  wouldst  not, 
couldst  not  permit  him  to  die  without  one  farewell  word," 
and  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  rocked  back 
and  forth,  while  hard,  dry  sobs  shook  her  slight,  famine- 
pinched  form. 

The  children  stopped  their  play  and  came  and  leaned 
upon  her  lap. 

"  Don't  cry,  mother,"  said  Jamie,  a  little  boy  of  ten. 
"  I  '11  soon  be  big  enough  to  work  for  you ;  and  I  "11  get 
rich,  and  you  shall  have  the  biggest  house  in  town.  I  '11 
take  care  of  you  if  papa  don't  come  back." 

Little  Sue  knew  not  what  to  say,  but  the  impulse  of  her 
love  was  her  best  guide.  She  threw  her  arms  around  her 
mother's  neck  with  such  an  impetuous  and  childlike  out 
burst  of  affection  that  the  poor  woman's  bitter  and  despair 
ing  thoughts  were  banished  for  a  time.  The  deepest  chord 
of  her  nature,  mother  love,  was  touched ;  and  for  her  chil 
dren's  sake  she  rose  up  once  more  and  faced  the  hard 
problems  of  her  life.  Putting  on  her  bonnet  and  thin  shawl 
(she  had  parted  with  much  that  she  now  so  sorely  needed), 
she  went  out  into  the  cold  December  wind.  The  sky  was 
clouded  like  her  hopes,  and  the  light,  even  in  the  morning 
hours,  was  dim  and  leaden-hued. 

She  first  called  on  Mr.  Jackson,  the  agent  from  whom  she 


348          l^AKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

rented    her  home,  and   besought  him  to  give  her  a  little 
more  time. 

"I  will  beg  for  work  from  door  to  door,"  she  said.' 
"Surely  in  this  Christian  city  there  must  be  those  who 
will  give  me  work;  and  that  is  all  I  ask." 

The  sleek,  comfortable  man,  in  his  well-appointed  office, 
was  touched  slightly,  and  said  in  a  voice  that  was  not  so 
gruff  as  he  at  first  had  intended  it  should  be,  — 

"Well,  I  will  wait  a  week  or  two  longer.  If  then  you 
cannot  pay  something  on  what  is  already  due,  my  duty  to 
my  employers  will  compel  me  to  take  the  usual  course. 
You  have  told  me  all  along  that  your  husband  would  surely 
return,  and  I  have  hated  to  say  a  word  to  discourage  you ; 
but  I  fear  you  will  have  to  bring  yourself  to  face  the  truth 
and  act  accordingly,  as  so  many  others  have  done.  I 
know  it 's  very  hard  for  you,  but  I  am  held  responsible  by  my 
employer,  and  at  my  intercession  he  has  been  lenient,  as 
you  must  admit.  You  could  get  a  room  or  two  in  town  for 
half  what  you  must  pay  where  you  are.  Good-morning." 

She  went  out  again  into  the  street,  which  the  shrouded 
sky  made  sombre  in  spite  of  preparations  seen  on  every 
side  for  the  chief  festival  of  the  year.  The  fear  was  grow 
ing  strong  that  like  Him  in  whose  memory  the  day  was 
honored,  she  and  her  little  ones  might  soon  not  know  where 
to  lay  their  heads.  She  succeeded  in  getting  the  small  sum 
owed  to  her  and  payment  also  for  some  sewing  just  finished. 
More  work  she  could  not  readily  obtain,  for  every  one  was 
busy  and  preoccupied  by  the  coming  day  of  gladness. 

"  Call  again,"  some  said  kindly  or  carelessly,  according 
to  their  nature.  "  After  the  holidays  are  over  we  will  try 
to  have  or  make  some  work  for  you." 

"But  I  need  —  I  must  have  work  now,"  she  ventured  to 
say  whenever  she  had  the  chance. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR    TIMES.  349 

In  response  to  this  appeal  there  were  a  few  offers  of 
charity,  small  indeed,  but  from  which  she  drew  back  with 
an  instinct  so  strong  that  it  could  not  be  overcome.  On 
every  side  she  heard  the  same  story.  The  times  were  very 
hard ;  requests  for  work  and  aid  had  been  so  frequent  that 
purses  and  patience  were  exhausted.  Moreover,  people 
had  spent  their  Christmas  money  on  their  households  and 
friends,  and  were  already  beginning  to  feel  poor. 

At  last  she  obtained  a  little  work,  and  having  made  a  few 
purchases  of  that  which  was  absolutely  essential,  she  was 
about  to  drag  her  weary  feet  homeward  when  the  thought 
occurred  to  her  that  the  children  would  want  to  hang  up 
their  stockings  at  night ;  and  she  murmured,  "  It  may  be 
the  last  chance  I  shall  ever  have  to  put  a  Christmas  gift  in 
them.  Oh,  that  I  were  stronger  !  Oh,  that  I  could  take 
my  sorrow  more  as  others  seem  to  take  theirs !  But  I  can 
not,  I  cannot !  My  burden  is  greater  than  I  can  bear.  The 
cold  of  this  awful  day  is  chilling  my  very  heart,  and  my  grief, 
as  hope  dies,  is  crushing  my  soul.  Oh,  he  must  be  dead, 
he  must  be  dead  !  That  is  what  they  all  think.  God  help 
my  little  ones  !  Oh,  what  will  become  of  them  if  I  sink, 
as  I  fear  I  shall !  If  it  were  not  for  them  I  feel  as  if  I 
would  fall  and  die  here  in  the  street.  Well,  be  our  fate 
what  it  may,  they  shall  owe  to  me  one  more  gleam  of  hap 
piness ;"  and  she  went  into  a  confectioner's  shop  and  bought 
a  few  ornamented  cakes.  These  were  the  only  gifts  she 
could  afford,  and  they  must  be  in  the  form  of  food. 

Before  she  reached  home  the  snow  was  whirling  in  the 
frosty  air,  and  the  shadows  of  the  brief  winter  day  deepen 
ing  fast.  With  a  smile  far  more  pathetic  than  tears  she 
greeted  the  children,  who  were  cold,  hungry,  and  frightened 
at  her  long  absence  ;  and  they,  children-like,  saw  only  the 
smile,  and  not  the  grief  it  masked.  They  saw  also  the 


350          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

basket  which  she  placed  on  the  table,  and  were  quick  to 
note  that  it  seemed  a  little  fuller  than  of  late. 

"Jamie,"  she  said,  "run  to  the  store  down  the  street  for 
some  coal  and  kindlings  that  I  bought,  and  then  we  will 
have  a  good  fire  and  a  nice  supper ; "  and  the  boy,  at  such 
a  prospect,  eagerly  obeyed. 

She  was  glad  to  have  him  gone,  that  she  might  hide  her 
weakness.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  so  white  and  faint  that 
even  little  Susie  left  off  peering  into  the  basket,  and  came 
to  her  with  a  troubled  face. 

"  It 's  nothing,  dearie,"  the  poor  creature  said.  "  Mam 
ma  's  only  a  little  tired.  See,"  she  added,  tottering  to  the 
table,  "  I  have  brought  you  a  great  piece  of  gingerbread." 

The  hungry  child  grasped  it,  and  was  oblivious  and 
happy. 

By  the  time  Jamie  returned  with  his  first  basket  of  kin 
dling  and  coal,  the  mother  had  so  far  rallied  from  her  ex 
haustion  as  to  meet  him  smilingly  again  and  help  him 
replenish  the  dying  fire. 

"  Now  you  shall  rest  and  have  your  gingerbread  before 
going  for  your  second  load,"  she  said  cheerily ;  and  the  boy 
took  what  was  ambrosia  to  him,  and  danced  around  the 
room  in  joyous  reaction  from  the  depression  of  the  long 
weary  day,  during  which,  lonely  and  hungry,  he  had  won 
dered  why  his  mother  did  not  return. 

"  So  little  could  make  them  happy,  and  yet  I  cannot 
seem  to  obtain  even  that  little,"  she  sighed.  "I  fear  — 
indeed,  I  fear,  —  I  cannot  be  with  them  another  Christmas  ; 
therefore  they  shall  remember  that  I  tried  to  make  them 
happy  once  more,  and  the  recollection  may  survive  the 
long  sad  days  before  them,  and  become  a  part  of  my 
memory." 

The  room  was  now  growing  dark,  and   she  lighted  the 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR    TIMES.  351 

lamp.     Then    she    cowered    shiveringly   over   the    reviving 
fire,  feeling  as  if  she  could  never  be  warm  again. 

The  street-lamps  were  lighted  early  on  that  clouded, 
stormy  evening,  and  they  were  a  signal  to  Mr.  Jackson, 
the  agent,  to  leave  his  office.  He  remembered  that  he 
had  ordered  a  holiday  dinner,  and  now  found  himself  in 
a  mood  to  enjoy  it.  He  had  scarcely  left  his  door  before 
a  man,  coming  up  the  street  with  great  strides  and  head 
bent  down  to  the  snow-laden  blast,  brushed  roughly  against 
him.  The  stranger's  cap  was  drawn  over  his  eyes,  and  the 
raised  collar  of  his  blue  army  overcoat  nearly  concealed  his 
face.  The  man  hurriedly  begged  pardon,  and  was  hastening 
on  when  Mr.  Jackson's  exclamation  of  surprise  caused  him 
to  stop  and  look  at  the  person  he  had  jostled. 

"Why,  Mr.  Marlow,"  the  agent  began,  "I'm  glad  to 
see  you.  It 's  a  pleasure  I  feared  I  should  never  have 
again." 

"  My  wife,"  the  man  almost  gasped,  "  she  's  still  in  the 
house  I  rented  of  you?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  was  the  hasty  reply.  "  It  '11  be  all  right 
now." 

"What  do  you  mean?     Has  it  not  been  all  right? " 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Jackson,  apologetically,  "we 
have  been  very  lenient  to  your  wife,  but  the  rent  has  not 
been  paid  for  over  two  months,  and  —  " 

"  And  you  were  about  to  turn  her  and  her  children  out- 
of-doors  in  midwinter,"  broke  in  the  soldier,  wrathfully. 
"That  is  the  way  you  sleek,  comfortable  stay-at-home 
people  care  for  those  fighting  your  battles.  After  you 
concluded  that  I  was  dead,  and  that  the  rent  might  not 
be  forthcoming,  you  decided  to  put  my  wife  into  the 
street.  Open  your  office,  sir,  and  you  shall  have  your 
rent." 


352          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Marlow,  there  's  no  cause  for  pitching  into 
me  in  this  way.  You  know  that  I  am  but  an  agent,  and  —  " 

"  Tell  your  rich  employer,  then,  what  I  have  said,  and 
ask  him  what  he  would  be  worth  to-day  were  there  not  men 
like  myself,  who  arc  willing  to  risk  everything  and  suffer 
everything  for  the  Union.  But  I  've  no  time  to  bandy 
words.  Have  you  seen  my  wife  lately?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  hesitating  reply ;  "she  was  here  to-day, 
and  I  —  " 

"  How  is  she?     What  did  you  say  to  her?  " 

"Well,  she  doesn't  look  very  strong.  I  felt  sorry  for 
her,  and  gave  her  more  time,  taking  the  responsibility 
myself —  " 

"  How  much  time  ?  " 

"  I  said  two  weeks,  but  no  doubt  I  could  have  had  the 
time  extended." 

"  I  have  my  doubts.  Will  you  and  your  employer  please 
accept  my  humble  gratitude  that  you  had  the  grace  not  to 
turn  her  out-of-doors  during  the  holiday  season.  It  might 
have  caused  remark ;  but  that  consideration  and  some  oth 
ers  that  I  might  name  are  not  to  be  weighed  against  a  few 
dollars  and  cents.  I  shall  now  remove  the  strain  upon  your 
patriotism  at  once,  and  will  not  only  pay  arrears,  but  also 
for  two  months  in  advance." 

"  Oh,  there  's  no  need  of  that  to-day." 

"  Yes,  there  is.  My  wife  shall  feel  to-night  that  she  has 
a  home.  She  evidently  has  not  received  the  letter  I  wrote 
as  soon  as  I  reached  our  lines,  or  you  would  not  have  been 
talking  to  her  about  two  weeks  more  of  shelter." 

The  agent  reopened  his  office  and  saw  a  roll  of  bills 
extracted  from  Marlow's  pocket  that  left  no  doubt  of  the 
soldier's  ability  to  provide  for  his  family.  He  gave  his 
receipt  in  silence,  feeling  that  words  would  not  mend  mat- 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR    TIMES.  353 

ters,  and   then  trudged   off  to  his  dinner  with  a   flagging 
appetite. 

As  Marlow  strode  away  he  came  to  a  sudden  resolution,  — 
he  would  look  upon  his  wife  and  children  before  they  saw 
him ;  he  would  feast  his  eyes  while  they  were  unconscious 
of  the  love  that  was  beaming  upon  them,  The  darkness 
and  storm  favored  his  project,  and  in  brief  time  he  saw  the 
light  in  his  window.  Unlatching  the  gate  softly,  and  with 
his  steps  muffled  by  the  snow  that  already  carpeted  the 
frozen  ground,  he  reached  the  window,  the  blinds  of  which 
were  but  partially  closed.  His  children  frolicking  about  the 
room  were  the  first  objects  that  caught  his  eye,  and  he 
almost  laughed  aloud  in  his  joy.  Then,  by  turning  another 
blind  slightly,  he  saw  his  wife  shivering  over  the  fire. 

"  Great  God  !  "  he  muttered,  "  how  she  has  suffered  !  " 
and  he  was  about  to  rush  in  and  take  her  into  his  arms. 
On  the  threshold  he  restrained  himself,  paused,  and  said, 
"  No,  not  yet ;  I  '11  break  the  news  of  my  return  in  my  own 
way.  The  shock  of  my  sudden  appearance  might  be  too 
great  for  her;"  and  he  went  back  to  the  window.  The 
wife's  eyes  were  following  her  children  with  such  a  wistful 
tenderness  that  the  boy,  catching  her  gaze,  stopped  his 
sport,  came  to  her  side,  and  began  to  speak.  They  were 
but  a  few  feet  away,  and  Marlow  caught  every  word. 

"  Mamma,"  the  child  said,  "  you  did  n't  eat  any  break 
fast,  and  I  don't  believe  you  have  eaten  anything  to-day. 
You  are  always  giving  everything  to  us.  Now  I  declare  I 
won't  eat  another  bit  unless  you  take  half  of  my  cake ;  " 
and  he  broke  off  a  piece  and  laid  it  in  her  lap. 

"  Oh,  Jamie,"  cried  the  poor  woman,  "  you  looked  so 
like  your  father  when  you  spoke  that  I  could  almost  see 
him ; "  and  she  caught  him  in  her  arms  and  covered  him 
with  kisses. 

23 


354         TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  I  '11  soon  be  big  enough  to  take  care  of  you.  I  'm 
going  to  grow  up  just  like  papa  and  do  everything  for  you," 
the  boy  said  proudly  as  she  released  him. 

Little  Susie  also  came  and  placed  what  was  left  of  her 
cake  in  her  mother's  lap,  saying,  — 

"  I  '11  work  for  you  too,  mamma ;  and  to-morrow  I  '11  sell 
the  doll  Santa  Glaus  gave  me  last  Christmas,  and  then  we  '11 
all  have  plenty  to  eat." 

Anson  Marlow  was  sobbing  outside  the  window  as  only 
a  man  weeps ;  and  his  tears  in  the  bitter  cold  became 
drops  of  ice  before  they  reached  the  ground. 

"  My  darlings  !  "  the  mother  cried.  "  Oh,  God  spare  me 
to  you  and  provide  some  way  for  us  !  Your  love  should 
make  me  rich  though  I  lack  all  else.  There,  I  won't  cry 
any  more,  and  you  shall  have  as  happy  a  Christmas  as  I  can 
give  you.  Perhaps  He  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  home 
less  and  shelterless  will  provide  for  our  need  ;  so  we  '11  try 
to  trust  Him  and  keep  His  birthday.  And  now,  Jamie,  go 
and  bring  the  rest  of  the  coal,  and  then  we  will  make  the 
dear  home  that  papa  gave  us  cheery  and  warm  once  more. 
If  he  were  only  with  us  we  would  n't  mind  hunger  or  cold, 
would  we?  Oh,  my  husband  !"  she  broke  out  afresh,  "if 
you  could  only  come  back,  even  though  crippled  and  help 
less,  I  feel  that  I  could  live  and  grow  strong  from  simple 
gladness." 

"  Don't  you  think,  mamma,"  Jamie  asked,  "  that  God  will 
let  papa  come  down  from  heaven  and  spend  Christmas  with 
us?  He  might  be  here  like  the  angels,  and  we  not  see  him." 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,"  the  sad  woman  replied,  shaking  her 
head  and  speaking  more  to  herself  than  to  the  child.  "  I 
don't  see  how  he  could  go  back  to  heaven  and  be  happy 
if  he  knew  all.  No,  we  must  be  patient  and  try  to  do  our 
best,  so  that  we  can  go  to  him.  Go  now,  Jamie,  before  it 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR    TIMES.  355 

gets  too  late.  I  '11  get  supper,  and  then  we  '11  sing  a  Christ 
mas  hymn ;  and  you  and  Susie  shall  hang  up  your  stockings, 
just  as  you  did  last  Christmas,  when  dear  papa  was  with  us. 
We  '11  try  to  do  everything  he  would  wish,  and  then  by  and 
by  we  shall  see  him  again." 

As  the  boy  started  on  his  errand  his  father  stepped  back 
out  of  the  light  of  the  window,  then  followed  the  child  with 
a  great  yearning  in  his  heart.  He  would  make  sure  the 
boy  was  safe  at  home  again  before  he  carried  out  his  plan. 
From  a  distance  he  saw  the  little  fellow  receive  the  coal 
and  start  slowly  homeward  with  the  burden,  and  he  followed 
to  a  point  where  the  light  of  the  street-lamps  ceased,  then 
joined  the  child,  and  said  in  a  gruff  voice,  "Here,  little 
man,  I  'm  going  your  way.  Let  me  carry  your  basket ;  " 
and  he  took  it  and  strode  on  so  fast  that  the  boy  had  to 
run  to  keep  pace  with  him.  Jamie  shuffled  along  through 
the  snow  as  well  as  he  could,  but  his  little  legs  were  so  short 
in  comparison  with  those  of  the  kindly  stranger  that  he 
found  himself  gradually  falling  behind.  So  he  put  on  an 
extra  burst  of  speed  and  managed  to  lay  hold  of  the  long 
blue  skirt  of  the  army  overcoat. 

"  Please,  sir,  don't  go  quite  so  fast,"  he  panted. 

The  stranger  slackened  his  pace,  and  in  a  constrained 
tone  of  voice,  asked,  — 

"  How  far  are  you  going,  little  man?  " 

"  Only  to  our  house,  —  mamma's.  She  's  Mrs.  Marlow, 
you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  —  that  is,  I  reckon  I  do.  How  much 
farther  is  it?" 

"  Oh,  not  much ;  we  're  most  halfway  now.  I  say,  you  're 
a  soldier,  are  n't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  my  boy,"  said  Marlow,  with  a  lump  in  his  throat. 
"Why?" 


356         TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Well,  you  see,  my  papa  is  a  soldier  too,  and  I  thought 
you  might  know  him.  We  have  n't  heard  from  him  for  a 
good  while,  and — "  choking  a  bit  —  "mamma's  afraid  he 
is  hurt,  or  taken  prisoner  or  something."  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  say  "killed." 

Jamie  let  go  the  overcoat  to  draw  his  sleeve  across  his 
eyes,  and  the  big  man  once  more  strode  on  faster  than  ever, 
and  Jamie  began  to  fear  lest  the  dusky  form  might  disap 
pear  in  the  snow  and  darkness  with  both  basket  and  coal ; 
but  the  apparent  stranger  so  far  forgot  his  part  that  he  put 
down  the  basket  at  Mrs.  Marlow's  gate,  and  then  passed  on 
so  quickly  that  the  panting  boy  had  not  time  to  thank  him. 
Indeed,  Anson  Marlow  knew  that  if  he  lingered  but  a  mo 
ment  he  would  have  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"Why,  Jamie,"  exclaimed  his  mother,  "how  could  you 
get  back  so  soon  with  that  heavy  basket?  It  was  too  heavy 
for  you,  but  you  will  have  to  be  mamma's  little  man  now." 

"  A  big  man  caught  up  with  me  and  carried  it.  I  don't 
care  if  he  did  have  a  gruff  voice,  I  'm  sure  he  was  a  good 
kind  man.  He  knew  where  we  lived  too,  for  he  put  the 
basket  down  at  our  gate  before  I  could  say  a  word,  I  was  so 
out  of  breath,  and  then  he  was  out  of  sight  in  a  minute." 
Some  instinct  kept  him  from  saying  anything  about  the  army 
overcoat. 

"  It 's  some  neighbor  that  lives  farther  up  the  street,  I 
suppose,  and  saw  you  getting  the  coal  at  the  store,"  Mrs. 
Marlow  said.  "  Yes,  Jamie,  it  was  a  good,  kind  act  to  help 
a  little  boy,  and  I  think  he  '11  have  a  happier  Christmas  for 
doing  it." 

"  Do  you  really  think  he  '11  have  a  happier  Christmas, 
mamma?" 

"  Yes,  I  truly  think  so.  We  are  so  made  that  we  cannot 
do  a  kind  act  without  feeling  the  better  for  it." 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR   TIMES.  357 

"  Well,  I  think  he  was  a  queer  sort  of  a  man  if  he  was 
kind.  I  never  knew  any  one  to  walk  so  fast.  I  spoke  to 
him  once,  but  he  did  not  answer.  Perhaps  the  wind  roared 
so  he  could  n't  hear  me." 

"  No  doubt  he  was  hurrying  home  to  his  wife  and  chil 
dren,"  she  said  with  a  deep  sigh. 

When  his  boy  disappeared  within  the  door  of  the  cot 
tage,  Marlow  turned  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the  city, 
first  going  to  the  grocery  at  which  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  purchasing  his  supplies.  The  merchant  stared  for 
a  moment,  then  stepped  forward  and  greeted  his  customer 
warmly. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  his  first  exclamations  of  surprise 
were  over,  "  the  snow  has  made  you  almost  as  white  as  a 
ghost ;  but  I  'm  glad  you  're  not  one.  We  scarce  ever 
thought  to  see  you  again." 

"Has  my  wife  an  open  account  here  now?"  was  the 
brief  response. 

"  Yes,  and  it  might  have  been  much  larger.  I  've  told 
her  so  too.  She  stopped  taking  credit  some  time  ago,  and 
when  she  's  had  a  dollar  or  two  to  spare  she  's  paid  it  on  the 
old  score.  She  bought  so  little  that  I  said  to  her  once  that 
she  need  not  go  elsewhere  to  buy ;  that  I  'd  sell  to  her  as 
cheap  as  any  one ;  that  I  believed  you  'd  come  back  all 
right,  and  if  you  did  n't  she  could  pay  me  when  she  could. 
What  do  you  think  she  did?  Why,  she  burst  out  crying, 
and  said,  '  God  bless  you,  sir,  for  saying  my  husband  will 
come  back  !  So  many  have  discouraged  me.'  I  declare  to 
you  her  feeling  was  so  right  down  genuine  that  I  had  to 
mop  my  own  eyes.  But  she  would  n't  take  any  more  credit, 
and  she  bought  so  little  that  I  've  been  troubled.  I  'd  have 
sent  her  something,  but  your  wife  somehow  ain't  one  of 
them  kind  that  you  can  give  things  to,  and  —  " 


358          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

Marlow  interrupted  the  good-hearted,  garrulous  shopman 
by  saying  significantly,  "  Come  with  me  to  your  back- 
office  ;  "  for  the  soldier  feared  that  some  one  might  enter 
who  would  recognize  him  and  carry  the  tidings  to  his  home 
prematurely. 

"  Mr.  Wilkins,"  he  said  rapidly,  "  I  wanted  to  find  out  if 
you  too  had  thriftily  shut  down  on  a  soldier's  wife.  You 
shall  not  regret  your  kindness." 

"  Hang  it  all !  "  broke  in  Wilkins,  with  compunction,  "  I 
haven't  been  very  kind.  I  ought  to  have  gone  and  seen 
your  wife  and  found  out  how  things  were ;  and  I  meant  to, 
but  I  've  been  so  confoundedly  busy  —  " 

"  No  matter  now ;  I  've  not  a  moment  to  spare.  You 
must  help  me  to  break  the  news  of  my  return  in  my  own 
way.  I  mean  they  shall  have  such  a  Christmas  in  the  little 
cottage  as  was  never  known  in  this  town.  You  could  send 
a  load  right  over  there,  could  n't  you?  " 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Wilkins,  under  the  impulse  of 
both  business  thrift  and  good-will;  and  a  list  of  tea,  cof 
fee,  sugar,  flour,  bread,  cakes,  apples,  etc.,  was  dashed  off 
rapidly;  and  Marlow  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the 
errand-boy,  the  two  clerks,  and  the  proprietor  himself  busily 
working  to  fill  the  order  in  the  shortest  possible  space  of 
time. 

He  next  went  to  a  restaurant,  a  little  farther  down  the 
street,  where  he  had  taken  his  meals  for  a  short  time  before 
he  brought  his  family  to  town,  and  was  greeted  with  almost 
equal  surprise  and  warmth.  Marlow  cut  short  all  words  by 
his  almost  feverish  haste.  A  huge  turkey  had  just  been 
roasted  for  the  needs  of  the  coming  holiday,  and  this  with 
a  cold  ham  and  a  pot  of  coffee  was  ordered  to  be  sent  in  a 
covered  tray  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  a  toy- shop 
was  visited,  and  such  a  doll  purchased  !  for  tears  came  into 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR    TIMES.  359 

Marlow's  eyes  whenever  he  thought  of  his  child's  offer  to 
sell  her  dolly  for  her  mother's  sake. 

After  selecting  a  sled  for  Jamie,  and  directing  that  they 
should  be  sent  at  once,  he  could  restrain  his  impatience  no 
longer,  and  almost  tore  back  to  his  station  at  the  cottage 
window.  His  wife  was  placing  the  meagre  little  supper  on 
the  table,  and  how  poor  and  scanty  it  was  ! 

"  Is  that  the  best  the  dear  soul  can  do  on  Christmas 
Eve?"  he  groaned.  "Why,  there's  scarcely  enough  for 
little  Sue.  Thank  God,  my  darling,  I  will  sit  down  with 
you  to  a  rather  different  supper  before  long  !  " 

He  bowed  his  head  reverently  with  his  wife  as  she  asked 
God's  blessing,  and  wondered  at  her  faith.  Then  he  looked 
and  listened  again  with  a  heart-hunger  which  had  been 
growing  for  months. 

"  Do  you  really  think  Santa  Glaus  will  fill  our  stockings 
to-night?"  Sue  asked. 

"  I  think  he  '11  have  something  for  you,"  she  replied. 
"  There  are  so  many  poor  little  boys  and  girls  in  the  city 
that  he  may  not  be  able  to  bring  very  much  to  you." 

"  Who  is  Santa  Glaus,  anyway?  "  questioned  Jamie. 

Tears  came  into  the  wife's  eyes  as  she  thought  of  the 
one  who  had  always  remembered  them  so  kindly  as  far  as 
his  modest  means  permitted. 

She  hesitated  in  her  reply ;  and  before  she  could  decide 
upon  an  answer  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Jamie  ran 
to  open  it,  and  started  back  as  a  man  entered  with  cap,  eye 
brows,  beard,  and  shaggy  coat  all  white  with  the  falling  snow. 
He  placed  two  great  baskets  of  provisions  on  the  floor,  and 
said  they  were  for  Mrs.  Anson  Marlow. 

"  There  is  some  mistake,"  Mrs.  Marlow  began ;  but  the 
children,  after  staring  a  moment,  shouted,  "  Santa  Glaus  ! 
Santa  Glaus  ! " 


360          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

The  grocer's  man  took  the  unexpected  cue  instantly,  and 
said,  "  No  mistake,  ma'am.  They  are  from  Santa  Glaus  ;  " 
and  before  another  word  could  be  spoken  he  was  gone. 
The  face  of  the  grocer's  man  was  not  very  familiar  to  Mrs. 
Marlow,  and  the  snow  had  disguised  him  completely.  The 
children  had  no  misgivings  and  pounced  upon  the  baskets 
and  with  exclamations  of  delight  drew  out  such  articles  as 
they  could  lift. 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  said  the  mother,  bewildered  and 
almost  frightened. 

"  Why,  mamma,  it 's  as  plain  as  day,"  cried  Jamie. 
"  Did  n't  he  look  just  like  the  pictures  of  Santa  Glaus,  — 
white  beard  and  white  eyebrows?  Oh,  mamma,  mamma, 
here  is  a  great  paper  of  red-cheeked  apples  !  "  and  he  and 
Susie  tugged  at  it  until  they  dragged  it  over  the  side  of 
the  basket,  when  the  bottom  of  the  bag  came  out,  and 
the  fruit  flecked  the  floor  with  red  and  gold.  Oh,  the 
bliss  of  picking  up  those  apples ;  of  comparing  one  with 
another ;  of  running  to  the  mother  and  asking  which  was 
the  biggest  and  which  the  reddest  and  most  beautifully 
streaked  ! 

"There  must  have  been  some  mistake,"  the  poor  woman 
kept  murmuring  as  she  examined  the  baskets  and  found  how 
liberal  and  varied  was  the  supply,  "  for  who  could  or  would 
have  been  so  kind?  " 

"Why,  mommie,"  said  little  Sue,  reproachfully,  "Santa 
Glaus  brought  'em.  Haven't  you  always  told  us  that  Santa 
Glaus  liked  to  make  us  happy?  " 

The  long- exiled  father  felt  that  he  could  restrain  himself 
but  a  few  moments  longer,  and  he  was  glad  to  see  that  the 
rest  of  his  purchases  were  at  the  door.  With  a  look  so  in 
tent,  and  yearning  concentration  of  thought  so  intense  that 
it  was  strange  that  they  could  not  feel  his  presence,  he  bent 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR    TIMES.  361 

his  eyes  once  more  upon  a  scene  that  would  imprint  itself 
upon  his  memory  forever. 

But  while  he  stood  there,  another  scene  came  before  his 
mental  vision.  Oddly  enough  his  thought  went  back  to  that 
far-off  Southern  brookside,  where  he  had  lain  with  his  hands 
in  the  cool  water.  He  leaned  against  the  window-casing, 
with  the  Northern  snow  whirling  about  his  head;  but  he 
breathed  the  balmy  breath  of  a  Southern  forest,  the  wood- 
thrush  sang  in  the  trees  overhead,  and  he  could  —  so  it 
seemed  to  him  —  actually  feel  the  water- worn  pebbles  under 
his  palms  as  he  watched  the  life-blood  ebbing  from  his  side. 
Then  there  was  a  dim  consciousness  of  rough  but  kindly 
arms  bearing  him  through  the  underbrush,  and  more  dis 
tinctly  the  memory  of  weary  weeks  of  convalescence  in  a 
mountaineer's  cabin.  All  these  scenes  of  peril,  before  he 
finally  reached  the  Union  lines,  passed  before  him  as  he 
stood  in  a  species  of  trance  beside  the  window  of  his 
home. 

The  half-grown  boys  sent  from  the  restaurant  and  toy-shop 
could  not  be  mistaken  for  Santa  Glaus  even  by  the  credulous 
fancy  of  the  children,  and  Mrs.  Marlow  stepped  forward 
eagerly  and  said,  — 

"  I  am  sure  there  is  some  mistake.  You  are  certainly 
leaving  these  articles  at  the  wrong  house."  The  faces  of 
the  children  began  to  grow  anxious  and  troubled  also,  for 
even  their  faith  could  not  accept  such  marvellous  good  for 
tune.  Jamie  looked  at  the  sled  with  a  kind  of  awe,  and  saw 
at  a  glance  that  it  was  handsomer  than  any  in  the  street. 
"Mr.  Lansing,  a  wealthy  man,  lives  a  little  farther  on," 
Mrs.  Marlow  began  to  urge ;  "  and  these  things  must  be 
meant  —  " 

"Isn't  your  name  Mrs.  Anson  Marlow?  "  asked  the  boy 
from  the  restaurant. 


362          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

"  Yes." 

"Then  I  must  do  as  I've  been  told;"  and  he  opened 
his  tray  and  placed  the  turkey,  the  ham,  and  the  coffee  on 
the  table. 

"  If  he 's  right,  I  'm  right  too,"  said  he  of  the  toy 
shop.  "  Them  was  my  directions ;  "  and  they  were  both 
abput  to  depart  when  the  woman  sprang  forward  and 
gasped,  - 

"  Stay  ! " 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  trembled  violently. 

"Who  sent  these  things?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Our  bosses,  mum,"  replied  the  boy  from  the  restaurant, 
hesitatingly. 

She  sprang  toward  him,  seized  his  arm,  and  looked  im 
ploringly  into  his  face.  "Who  ordered  them  sent?"  she 
asked  in  a  low,  passionate  voice. 

The  young  fellow  began  to  smile,  and  stammered  awk 
wardly,  "  I  don't  think  I  'm  to  tell." 

She  released  his  arm  and  glanced  around  with  a  look  of 
intense  expectation. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  she  gasped  with  quick,  short  sobs,  "  can  it 
be  — "  Then  she  sprang  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
looked  out  into  the  black,  stormy  night.  What  seemed  a 
shadow  rushed  toward  her;  she  felt  herself  falling,  but 
strong  arms  caught  and  bore  her,  half  fainting,  to  a  lounge 
within  the  room. 

Many  have  died  from  sorrow,  but  few  from  joy.  With 
her  husband's  arms  around  her  Mrs.  Marlow's  weakness 
soon  passed.  In  response  to  his  deep,  earnest  tones  of 
soothing  and  entreaty,  she  speedily  opened  her  eyes  and 
gave  him  a  smile  so  full  of  content  and  unutterable  joy 
that  all  anxiety  in  her  behalf  began  to  pass  from  his 
mind. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR    TIMES.  363 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly,  "I  can  live  now.  It  seems  as 
if  a  new  and  stronger  life  were  coming  back  with  every 
breath." 

The  young  fellows  who  had  been  the  bearers  of  the  gifts 
were  so  touched  that  they  drew  their  rough  sleeves  across 
their  eyes  as  they  hastened  away,  closing  the  door  on  the 
happiest  family  in  the  city. 


A    BRAVE    LITTLE   QUAKERESS. 

A   TRADITION   OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

OT  very  far  from  the  Highlands  of  the  Hudson,  but  at 
a  considerable  distance  from  the  river,  there  stood, 
one  hundred  years  ago,  a  farm-house  that  evidently  had  been 
built  as  much  for  strength  and  defence  as  for  comfort.  The 
dwelling  was  one  story  and  a  half  in  height,  and  was  con 
structed  of  hewn  logs,  fitted  closely  together,  and  made 
impervious  to  the  weather  by  old-fashioned  mortar,  which 
seems  to  defy  the  action  of  time.  Two  entrances  facing 
each  other  led  to  the  main  or  living  room,  and  they  were 
so  large  that  a  horse  could  pass  through  them,  dragging  in 
immense  back-logs.  These,  having  been  detached  from  a 
chain  when  in  the  proper  position,  were  rolled  into  the  huge 
fireplace  that  yawned  like  a  sooty  cavern  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  apartment.  A  modern  housekeeper,  who  finds  wood 
too  dear  an  article  for  even  the  air-tight  stove,  would  be 
appalled  by  this  fireplace.  Stalwart  Mr.  Reynolds,  the 
master  of  the  house,  could  easily  walk  under  its  stony  arch 
without  removing  his  broad-brimmed  Quaker  hat.  From 
the  left  side,  and  at  a  convenient  height  from  the  hearth, 
a  massive  crane  swung  in  and  out ;  while  high  above  the 
centre  of  the  fire  was  an  iron  hook,  -or  trammel,  from  which 
by  chains  were  suspended  the  capacious  iron  pots  used 
in  those  days  for  culinary  or  for  stock-feeding  purposes. 


A   BRAVE  LITTLE   QUAKERESS.  365 

This  trammel,  which  hitherto  had  suggested  only  good 
cheer,  was  destined  to  have  in  coming  years  a  terrible 
significance  to  the  household. 

When  the  blaze  was  moderate,  or  the  bed  of  live  coals 
not  too  ample,  the  children  could  sit  on  either  side  of  the 
fireplace  and  watch  the  stars  through  its  wide  flue ;  and  this 
was  a  favorite  amusement  of  Phebe  Reynolds,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  house. 

A  door  opened  from  the  living-room  into  the  other  apart 
ments,  furnished  in  the  old  massive  style  that  outlasts  many 
generations.  All  the  windows  were  protected  by  stout  oaken 
shutters  which,  when  closed,  almost  transformed  the  dwell 
ing  into  a  fortress,  giving  security  against  any  ordinary  at 
tack.  There  were  no  loopholes  in  the  walls  through  which 
the  muzzle  of  the  deadly  rifle  could  be  thrust  and  fired  from 
within.  This  feature,  so  common  in  the  primitive  abodes 
of  the  country,  was  not  in  accordance  with  John  Reynolds's 
Quaker  principles.  While  indisposed  to  fight,  it  was  evi 
dent  that  the  good  man  intended  to  interpose  between  him 
self  and  his  enemies  all  the  passive  resistance  that  his  stout 
little  domicile  could  offer. 

And  he  knew  that  he  had  enemies  of  the  bitterest  and 
most  unscrupulous  character.  He  was  a  stanch  Whig, 
loyal  to  the  American  cause,  and,  above  all,  resolute  and 
active  in  the  maintenance  of  law  and  order  in  those  lawless 
times.  He  thus  had  made  himself  obnoxious  to  his  Tory 
neighbors,  and  an  object  of  hate  and  fear  to  a  gang  of 
marauders,  who,  under  the  pretence  of  acting  with  the  Brit 
ish  forces,  plundered  the  country  far  and  near.  Claudius 
Smith,  the  Robin^  Hood  of  the  Highlands  and  the  terror 
of  the  pastoral  low  country,  had  formerly  been  their  leader ; 
and  the  sympathy  shown  by  Mr.  Reynolds  with  all  the  ef 
forts  to  bring  him  to  justice  which  finally  resulted  in  his 


366          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

capture  and  execution,  had  awakened  among  his  former  as 
sociates  an  intense  desire  for  revenge.  This  fact,  well  known 
to  the  farmer,  kept  him  constantly  on  his  guard,  and  filled 
his  wife  and  daughter  Phebe  with  deep  apprehension. 

At  the  time  of  our  story,  Phebe  was  only  twelve  years  of 
age,  but  was  mature  beyond  her  years.  There  were  several 
younger  children,  and  she  had  become  almost  womanly  in 
aiding  her  mother  in  their  care.  Her  stout,  plump  little  body 
had  been  developed  rather  than  enfeebled  by  early  toil,  and 
a  pair  of  resolute  and  often  mirthful  blue  eyes  bespoke  a 
spirit  not  easily  daunted.  She  was  a  native  growth  of  the 
period,  vitalized  by  pure  air  and  out-of-door  pursuits,  and 
she  abounded  in  the  shrewd  intelligence  and  demure  refine 
ment  of  her  sect  to  a  degree  that  led  some  of  their  neigh 
bors  to  speak  of  her  as  "  a  little  old  woman."  When  alone 
with  the  children,  however,  or  in  the  woods  and  fields,  she 
would  doff  her  Quaker  primness,  and  romp,  climb  trees,  and 
frolic  with  the  wildest. 

But  of  late,  the  troublous  times  and  her  father's  peril 
had  brought  unwonted  thoughtfulness  into  her  blue  eyes,  and 
more  than  Quaker  gravity  to  the  fresh  young  face,  which,  in 
spite  of  exposure  to  sun  and  wind,  maintained  much  of  its 
inherited  fairness  of  complexion.  Of  her  own  accord  she 
was  becoming  a  vigilant  sentinel,  for  a  rumor  had  reached 
Mr.  Reynolds  that  sooner  or  later  he  would  have  a  visit 
from  the  dreaded  mountain  gang  of  hard  riders.  Two 
roads  leading  to  the  hills  converged  on  the  main  high 
way  not  far  from  his  dwelling ;  and  from  an  adjacent  knoll 
Phebe  often  watched  this  place,  while  her  father,  with  a 
lad  in  his  employ,  completed  their  work  about  the  barn. 
When  the  shadows  deepened,  all  was  made  as  secure 
as  possible  without  and  within,  and  the  sturdy  farmer,  after 
committing  himself  and  his  household  to  the  Divine  protec- 


A   BRAVE  LITTLE  QUAKERESS.  367 

tion,  slept  as  only  brave  men  sleep  who  are  clear  in  con 
science  and  accustomed  to  danger. 

His  faith  was  undoubtedly  rewarded ;  but  Providence  in 
the  execution  of  its  will  loves  to  use  vigilant  human  eyes 
and  ready,  loving  hands.  The  guardian  angel  destined  to 
protect  the  good  man  was  his  blooming  daughter  Phebe, 
who  had  never  thought  of  herself  as  an  angel,  and  indeed 
rarely  thought  of  herself  at  all,  as  is  usually  the  case  with 
those  who  do  most  to  sweeten  and  brighten  the  world.  She 
was  a  natural,  wholesome,  human  child,  with  all  a  child's 
unconsciousness  of  self.  She  knew  she  could  not  protect 
her  father  like  a  great  stalwart  son,  but  she  could  watch 
and  warn  him  of  danger,  and  as  the  sequel  proved,  she 
could  do  far  more. 

The  farmer's  habits  were  well  known,  and  the  ruffians  of 
the  mountains  were  aware  that  after  he  had  shut  himself  in 
he  was  much  like  Noah  in  his  ark.  If  they  attempted  to 
burn  him  out,  the  flames  would  bring  down  upon  them  a 
score  of  neighbors  not  hampered  by  Quaker  principles. 
Therefore  they  resolved  upon  a  sudden  onslaught  before 
he  had  finished  the  evening  labors  of  the  farm.  This  was 
what  the  farmer  feared ;  and  Phebe,  like  a  vigilant  outpost, 
was  now  never  absent  from  her  place  of  observation  until 
called  in. 

One  spring  evening  she  saw  two  mounted  men  descend 
ing 'one  of  the  roads  which  led  from  the  mountains.  In 
stead  of  jogging  quietly  out  on  the  highway,  as  ordinary 
travellers  would  have  done,  they  disappeared  among  the 
trees.  Soon  afterward  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  two  other 
horsemen  on  the  second  mountain  road.  One  of  these 
soon  came  into  full  view,  and  looked  up  and  down  as  if 
to  see  that  all  was  clear.  Apparently  satisfied,  he  gave  a 
low  whistle,  when  three  men  joined  him.  Phebe  waited  to 


368          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

see  no  more,  but  sped  toward  the  house,  her  flaxen  curls 
flying  from  her  flushed  and  excited  face. 

"  They  are  coming,  father  !  Thee  must  be  quick  !  "  she 
cried. 

But  a  moment  or  two  elapsed  before  all  were  within  the 
dwelling,  the  doors  banged  and  barred,  the  heavy  shutters 
closed,  and  the  home-fortress  made  secure.  Phebe's  warn 
ing  had  come  none  too  soon,  for  they  had  scarcely  time  to 
take  breath  before  the  tramp  of  galloping  horses  and  the 
oaths  of  their  baffled  foes  were  heard  without.  The  ma 
rauders  did  not  dare  make  much  noise,  for  fear  that  some 
passing  neighbor  might  give  the  alarm.  Tying  their  horses 
behind  the  house,  where  they  would  be  hidden  from  the 
road,  they  tried  various  expedients  to  gain  an  entrance,  but 
the  logs  and  heavy  planks  baffled  them.  At  last  one  of  the 
number  suggested  that  they  should  ascend  the  roof  and 
climb  down  the  wide  flue  of  the  chimney.  This  plan  was 
easy  of  execution,  and  for  a  few  moments  the  stout  farmer 
thought  that  his  hour  had  come.  With  a  heroism  far  be 
yond  that  of  the  man  who  strikes  down  his  assailant,  he 
prepared  to  suffer  all  things  rather  than  take  life  with  his 
own  hands. 

But  his  wife  proved  equal  to  this  emergency.  She  had 
been  making  over  a  bed,  and  a  large  basket  of  feathers  was 
within  reach.  There  were  live  coals  on  the  hearth,  but  they 
did  not  give  out  enough  heat  to  prevent  the  ruffians  from 
descending.  Two  of  them  were  already  in  the  chimney, 
and  were  threatening  horrible  vengeance  if  the  least  re 
sistance  was  offered.  Upon  the  coals  on  the  hearth  the 
housewife  instantly  emptied  her  basket  of  feathers ;  and  a 
great  volume  of  pungent,  stifling  smoke  poured  up  the 
chimney.  The  threats  of  the  men,  who  by  means  of  ropes 
were  cautiously  descending,  were  transformed  into  chok- 


A  BRAVE  LITTLE  QUAKERESS.  369 

ing,  half- suffocated  sounds,  and  it  was  soon  evident  that 
the  intruders  were  scrambling  out  as  fast  as  possible.  A 
hurried  consultation  on  the  roof  ensued,  and  then,  as  if 
something  had  alarmed  them,  they  galloped  off.  With  the 
exception  of  the  cries  of  the  peepers,  or  hylas,  in  an  adja 
cent  swamp,  the  night  soon  grew  quiet  around  the  closed 
and  darkened  dwelling.  Farmer  Reynolds  bowed  in  thanks 
giving  over  their  escape,  and  then  after  watching  a  few  hours, 
slept  as  did  thousands  of  others  in  those  times  of  anxiety. 

But  Phebe  did  not  sleep.  She  grew  old  by  moments 
that  night  as  do  other  girls  by  months  and  years ;  as  never 
before  she  understood  that  her  father's  life  was  in  peril. 
How  much  that  life  meant  to  her  and  the  little  brood  of 
which  she  was  the  eldest !  How  much  it  meant  to  her 
dear  mother,  who  was  soon  again  to  give  birth  to  a  little 
one  that  would  need  a  father's  protection  and  support !  As 
the  young  girl  lay  in  her  little  attic  room,  with  dilated  eyes 
and  ears  intent  on  the  slightest  sound,  she  was  ready  for 
any  heroic  self-sacrifice,  without  once  dreaming  that  she 
was  heroic. 

The  news  of  the  night-attack  spread  fast,  and  there  was 
a  period  of  increased  vigilance  which  compelled  the  out 
laws  to  lie  close  in  their  mountain  fastnesses.  But  Phebe 
knew  that  her  father's  enemies  were  still  at  large  with  their 
hate  only  stimulated  because  baffled  for  a  time.  Therefore 
she  did  not  in  the  least  relax  her  watchfulness ;  and  she 
besought  their  nearest  neighbors  to  come  to  their  assistance 
should  any  alarm  be  given. 

When  the  spring  and  early  summer  passed  without  fur 
ther  trouble,  they  all  began  to  breathe  more  freely ;  but  one 
July  night  John  Reynolds  was  betrayed  by  his  patriotic 
impulses.  He  was  awakened  by  a  loud  knocking  at  his 
door.  Full  of  misgiving,  he  rose  and  hastily  dressed  him- 

24 


3/0          TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER  STORIES. 

self;  Phebe,  who  had  slipped  on  her  clothes  at  the  first 
alarm,  joined  him  and  said  earnestly,  — 

"  Don't  thee  open  the  door,  father,  to  anybody,  at  this 
time  of  night ;  "  and  his  wife,  now  lying  ill  and  helpless  on 
a  bed  in  the  adjoining  room,  added  her  entreaty  to  that  of 
her  daughter.  In  answer,  however,  to  Mr.  Reynolds's  in 
quiries  a  voice  from  without,  speaking  quietly  and  seemingly 
with  authority,  asserted  that  they  were  a  squad  from  Wash 
ington's  forces  in  search  of  deserters,  and  that  no  harm 
would  ensue  unless  he  denied  their  lawful  request.  Con 
scious  of  innocence,  and  aware  that  detachments  were  often 
abroad  on  such  authorized  quests,  Mr.  Reynolds  unbarred 
his  door.  The  moment  he  opened  it  he  saw  his  terrible 
error ;  not  soldiers,  but  the  members  of  the  mountain  gang, 
were  crouched  like  wild  beasts  ready  to  spring  upon  him. 

"  Fly,  father  !  "  cried  Phebe.  "  They  won't  hurt  us  ;  " 
but  before  the  bewildered  man  could  think  what  to  do,  the 
door  flew  open  from  the  pressure  of  half  a  dozen  wild- 
looking  desperadoes,  and  he  was  powerless  in  their  grasp. 
They  evidently  designed  murder,  but  not  a  quick  and  mer 
ciful  "  taking  off;  "  they  first  heaped  upon  their  victim  the 
vilest  epithets,  seeking  in  their  thirst  for  revenge  to  inflict 
all  the  terrors  of  death  in  anticipation.  The  good  man, 
however,  now  face  to  face  with  his  fate,  grew  calm  and 
resigned.  Exasperated  by  his  courage,  they  began  to  cut 
and  torture  him  with  their  swords  and  knives.  Phebe 
rushed  forward  to  interpose  her  little  form  between  her 
father  and  the  ruffians,  and  was  dashed,  half  stunned,  into 
a  corner  of  the  room.  Even  for  the  sake  of  his  sick  wife, 
the  brave  farmer  could  not  refrain  from  uttering  groans  of 
anguish  which  brought  the  poor  woman  with  faltering  steps 
into  his  presence.  After  one  glance  at  the  awful  scene  she 
sank,  half  fainting,  on  a  settee  near  the  door. 


A   BRAVE  LITTLE   QUAKERESS.  371 

When  the  desire  for  plunder  got  the  better  of  their 
fiendish  cruelty,  one  of  the  gang  threw  a  noosed  rope  over 
Mr.  Reynolds's  head,  and  then  they  hung  him  to  the  tram 
mel  or  iron  hook  in  the  great  chimney. 

"  You  can't  smoke  us  out  this  time,"  they  shouted. 
"  You  Ve  now  got  to  settle  with  the  avengers  of  Claudius 
Smith ;  and  you  and  some  others  will  find  us  ugly  customers 
to  settle  with." 

They  then  rushed  off  to  rob  the  house,  for  the  farmer 
was  reputed  to  have  not  a  little  money  in  his  strong  box. 
The  moment  they  were  gone  Phebe  seized  a  knife  and  cut 
her  father  down.  Terror  and  excitement  gave  her  almost 
supernatural  strength,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  boy  in  her 
father's  service  she  got  the  poor  man  on  a  bed  which  he 
had  occupied  during  his  wife's  illness.  Her  reviving  mother 
was  beginning  to  direct  her  movements  when  the  ruffians 
again  entered ;  and  furious  with  rage,  they  again  seized  and 
hung  her  father,  while  one,  more  brutal  than  the  others, 
whipped  the  poor  child  with  a  heavy  rope  until  he  thought 
she  was  disabled.  The  girl  at  first  cowered  and  shivered 
under  the  blows,  and  then  sank  as  if  lifeless  on  the  floor. 
But  the  moment  she  was  left  to  herself  she  darted  forward 
and  once  more  cut  her  father  down.  The  robbers  then 
flew  upon  the  prostrate  man  and  cut  and  stabbed  him  until 
they  supposed  he  was  dead.  Toward  his  family  they  medi 
tated  a  more  terrible  and  devilish  cruelty.  After  sacking 
the  house  and  taking  all  the  plunder  they  could  carry,  they 
relieved  the  horror-stricken  wife  and  crying,  shrieking  chil 
dren  of  their  presence.  Their  further  action,  however, 
soon  inspired  Phebe  with  a  new  and  more  awful  fear,  for 
she  found  that  they  had  fastened  the  doors  on  the  outside 
and  were  building  a  fire  against  one  of  them. 

For  a  moment  an  overpowering  despair  at  the  prospect 


372          TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

of  their  fate  almost  paralyzed  her.  She  believed  her  father 
was  dead.  The  boy  who  had  aided  her  at  first  was  now 
dazed  and  helpless  from  terror.  If  aught  could  be  done  in 
this  supreme  moment  of  peril  she  saw  that  it  must  be  done 
by  her  hands.  The  smoke  from  the  kindling  fire  without 
was  already  curling  in  through  the  crevices  around  the  door. 
There  was  not  a  moment,  not  a  second  to  be  lost.  The 
ruffians'  voices  were  growing  fainter,  and  she  heard  the 
sounds  of  their  horses'  feet.  Would  they  go  away  in  time 
for  her  to  extinguish  the  fire  ?  She  ran  to  her  attic  room 
and  cautiously  opened  the  shutter.  Yes,  they  were  mount 
ing  ;  and  in  the  faint  light  of  the  late-rising  moon  she  saw 
that  they  were  taking  her  father's  horses.  A  moment  later, 
as  if  fearing  that  the  blaze  might  cause  immediate  pursuit, 
they  dashed  off  toward  the  mountains. 

The  clatter  of  their  horses'  hoofs  had  not  died  away 
before  the  intrepid  girl  had  opened  the  shutter  of  a  window 
nearest  the  ground,  and  springing  lightly  out  with  a  pail  in 
her  hand  she  rushed  to  the  trough  near  the  barn,  which  she 
knew  was  full  of  water.  Back  and  forth  she  flew  between 
the  fire  and  the  convenient  reservoir  with  all  the  water  that 
her  bruised  arms  and  back  permitted  her  to  carry.  For 
tunately  the  night  was  a  little  damp,  and  the  stout  thick 
door  had  kindled  slowly.  To  her  intense  joy  she  soon 
gained  the  mastery  of  the  flames,  and  at  last  extinguished 
them. 

She  did  not  dare  to  open  the  door  for  fear  that  the  robbers 
might  return,  but  clambering  in  at  the  window,  made  all 
secure  as  had  been  customary,  for  now  it  was  her  impulse 
to  do  just  as  her  father  would  have  done. 

She  found  her  mother  on  her  knees  beside  her  father, 
who  would  indeed  have  been  a  ghastly  and  awful  object 
to  all  but  the  eyes  of  love. 


A   BRAVE  LITTLE  QUAKERESS.  373 

"  Oh,  Phebe,  I  hope  —  I  almost  believe  thy  father 
lives  !  "  cried  the  woman.  "  Is  it  my  throbbing  palm,  or 
does  his  heart  still  beat?" 

"  I  'm  sure  it  beats,  mother  !  "  cried  the  girl,  putting  her 
little  hand  on  the  gashed  and  mangled  body. 

"  Oh,  then  there  's  hope  !  Here,  Abner,"  to  the  boy, 
"  is  n't  there  any  man  in  thee  ?  Help  Phebe  get  him  on 
the  bed,  and  then  we  must  stop  this  awful  bleeding.  O 
that  I  were  well  and  strong  !  Phebe,  thee  must  now  take 
my  place.  Thee  may  save  thy  father's  life.  I  can  tell  thee 
what  to  do  if  thee  has  the  courage." 

Phebe  had  the  courage,  and  with  deft  hands  did  her 
mother's  bidding.  She  stanched  the  many  gaping  wounds  ; 
she  gave  spirits,  at  first  drop  by  drop,  until  at  last  the 
man  breathed  and  was  conscious.  Even  before  the  dawn 
began  to  brighten  over  the  dreaded  Highlands  which  their 
ruthless  enemies  were  already  climbing,  Phebe  was  flying, 
bareheaded,  across  the  fields  to  their  nearest  neighbor. 
The  good  people  heard  of  the  outrage  with  horror  and 
indignation.  A  half-grown  lad  sprang  on  the  bare  back 
of  a  young  horse  and  galloped  across  the  country  for  a  sur 
geon.  A  few  moments  later  the  farmer,  equipped  for  chase 
and  battle,  dashed  away  at  headlong  pace  to  alarm  the 
neighborhood.  The  news  sped  from  house  to  house  and 
hamlet  to  hamlet  like  fire  in  prairie  grass.  The  sun  had 
scarcely  risen  before  a  dozen  bronzed  and  stern-browed 
men  were  riding  into  John  Reynolds's  farm-yard  under  the 
lead  of  young  Hal  June,  —  the  best  shot  that  the  wars  had 
left  in  the  region;  The  surgeon  had  already  arrived,  and 
before  he  ceased  from  his  labors  he  had  dressed  thirty 
wounds. 

The  story  told  by  Phebe  had  been  as  brief  as  it  was  ter 
rible,  —  for  she  was  eager  to  return  to  her  father  and  sick 


374         TAKEN  ALIVE:  AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

mother.  She  had  not  dreamed  of  herself  as  the  heroine  of 
the  affair,  and  had  not  given  any  such  impression,  although 
more  than  one  had  remarked  that  she  was  "  a  plucky  little 
chick  to  give  the  alarm  before  it  was  light."  But  when  the 
proud  mother  faintly  and  tearfully  related  the  particulars  of 
the  tragedy,  and  told  how  Phebe  had  saved  her  father's 
life  and  probably  her  mother's,  —  for,  "  I  was  too  sick  to 
climb  out  of  a  window,"  she  said  ;  when  she  told  how  the 
child  after  a  merciless  whipping  had  again  cut  her  father 
down  from  the  trammel-hook,  had  extinguished  the  fire, 
and  had  been  nursing  her  father  back  to  hfe,  while  all  the 
time  in  almost  agony  herself  from  the  cruel  blows  that  had 
been  rained  upon  her,  —  Phebe  was  dazed  and  bewildered 
at  the  storm  of  applause  that  greeted  her.  And  when  the 
surgeon,  in  order  to  intensify  the  general  desire  for  ven 
geance,  showed  the  great  welts  and  scars  on  her  arms 
and  neck,  gray-bearded  fathers  who  had  known  her  from  in 
fancy  took  her  into  their  arms  and  blessed  and  kissed  her. 
For  once  in  his  life  young  Hal  June  wished  he  was  a  gray- 
beard,  but  his  course  was  much  more  to  the  mind  of  Phebe 
than  any  number  of  caresses  would  have  been.  Spring 
ing  on  his  great  black  horse,  and  with  his  dark  eyes  burning 
with  a  fire  that  only  blood  could  quench,  he  shouted, — 

"  Come,  neighbors,  it 's  time  for  deeds.  That  brave 
little  woman  ought  to  make  a  man  of  every  mother's  son 
of  us ; "  and  he  dashed  away  so  furiously  that  Phebe 
thought  with  a  strange  little  tremor  at  her  heart  that  he 
might  in  his  speed  face  the  robbers  all  alone.  The  stout 
yeomen  clattered  after  him ;  the  sound  of  their  pursuit 
soon  died  away ;  and  Phebe  returned  to  woman's  work  of 
nursing,  watching,  and  praying. 

The  bandits  of  the  hills,  not  expecting  such  prompt  re 
taliation,  were  overtaken,  and  then  followed  a  headlong  race 


A  BRAVE  LITTLE  QUAKERESS.  375 

over  the  rough  mountain  roads,  —  guilty  wretches  flying  for 
life,  and  stern  men  almost  reckless  in  the  burning  desire 
to  avenge  a  terrible  wrong.  Although  the  horses  of  the 
marauders  were  tired,  their  riders  were  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  fastnesses  of  the  wilderness  that  they  led  the  pur 
suers  through  exceedingly  difficult  and  dangerous  paths. 
At  last,  June,  ever  in  the  van,  caught  sight  of  a  man's  form, 
and  almost  instantly  his  rifle  awoke  a  hundred  echoes 
among  the  hills.  When  they  reached  the  place,  stains  of 
blood  marked  the  ground,  proving  that  at  least  a  wound 
had  been  given.  Just  beyond,  the  gang  evidently  had  dis 
persed,  each  one  for  himself,  leaving  behind  everything 
that  impeded  their  progress.  The  region  was  almost  im 
penetrable  in  its  wildness  except  by  those  who  knew  all  its 
rugged  paths.  The  body  of  the  man  whom  June  had 
wounded,  however,  was  found,  clothed  in  a  suit  of  Quaker 
drab  stolen  from  Mr.  Reynolds.  The  rest  of  the  band 
with  few  exceptions  met  with  fates  that  accorded  with 
their  deeds. 

Phebe  had  the  happiness  of  nursing  her  father  back  to 
health,  and  although  maimed  and  disfigured,  he  lived  to 
a  ripe  old  age.  If  the  bud  is  the  promise  of  the  flower, 
Phebe  must  have  developed  a  womanhood  that  was  regal 
in  its  worth ;  at  the  same  time  I  believe  that  she  always 
remained  a  modest,  demure  little  Quakeress,  and  never 
thought  of  her  virtues  except  when  reminded  of  them  in 
plain  English. 

NOTE.  —  In  the  preceding  narrative  I  have  followed  almost  literally 
a  family  tradition  of  events  which  actually  occurred. 

THE   END. 


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2  DODD,  MEAD  &>  COMPANY'S 

ABBOTT   (JOHN  S.   C.).-CONTINUED. 

"  Boone,"  always  a  favorite  with  the  young,  is  retold  with  singular  vivid 
ness  and  freshness.  In  "Miles  Standish"  we  have  a  picture  of  the  hard 
ships  of  the  Pilgrims  from  the  parting  at  Delft  Haven  to  their  perils  in  the 
wilderness,  when  threatened  by  famine  and  surrounded  by  savage  foes. 
"  De  Soto"  reads  like  a  romance  of  the  chivalric  deeds  of  knight-errantry. 
His  adventures  among  the  Indian  races,  his  grand  discovery  of  the  Missis 
sippi,  and  his  burial  in  its  waters,  have  never  before  been  told  so  clearly, 
connectedly  and  circumstantially. 

"  Christopher  Carson  "  is  the  story  of  one  of  the  most  famous  of  the 
Western  adventurers  whose  life  is  a  romance  of  the  wilderness. 

"  Peter  Stuyvesant  "  gives  a  capital  picture  of  the  early  history  of  New 
York  before  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  English. 

If  a  career  of  daring  and  successful  undertakings,  of  gallant  conduct  in 
battle,  of  fearless  enterprises  at  sea,  is  worthy  of  record,  the  life  history  of 
"  John  Paul  Jones  "  deserves  a  place  in  our  country's  archives. 

The  life  of  "  Crockett "  is  a  veritable  romance,  with  the  additional  charm 
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lowly  and  a  state  of  semi -civilization  of  which  but  few  can  have  any  idea. 

The  wild  and  wonderful  narrative  of  "  Captain  Kidd"  forms  a  story 
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"  La  Salle  "  was  one  of  the  purest  and  noblest  of  the  pioneers  of  Ameri 
can  civilization,  and  as  such  his  history  should  be  read  and  understood. 

In  "  Columbus"  we  have  again  the  story  of  the  discovery  of  America, 
while  the  lives  of  "  Franklin  "  and  "  Washington  "  take  us  among  the  times 
that  tried  men's  souls,  the  dark  days  of  the  Revolution  and  the  early  years 
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CA  TALOG  UE  OF  P UBLICA  TIONS.  3 

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ATWATER  (Rev.  E.  E.,  D.D.). 

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Tabernacle  was  in  itself,  or  in  its  relations  to  Jewish  worship,  can  be  ob 
tained  than  by  the  study  of  this  work." — The  Presbyterian. 

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trations,  $3.50. 
*'  Dr.  Baird's  work  is  indeed  one  that  will  interest  every  lover  of  free- 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  5 

dom,  and  every  man  who  respects  heroic  conduct.  Of  course  the  descend 
ants  of  the  Huguenots,  who  preserve  the  old  names  and  traditions,  will  find 
much  in  it  to  gratify  them  personally.  But  it  is  most  to  be  prized  for  its  ex 
cellent  exposition  of  a  very  important  popular  movement  that  has  not  hereto 
fore  been  fully  measured  by  historians.  Diagrams,  maps,  views  of  places, 
copies  of  documents,  and  other  illustrations  add  to  the  value  of  this  admi 
rable  production." — Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

"Such  an  historical  work  as  this  appears  only  at  rare  intervals.  The 
author  has  shown  himself  admirably  fitted  for  his  work,  and  his  publishers 
have  issued  his  volumes  in  a  style  befitting  their  dignity  and  merits." — The 
Capital,  Washington. 

"  Its  appearance  is  certainly  well  timed  :  near  the  opening  of  the  very 
year  in  which  the  bi-centennial  anniversary  of  the  revocation  of  the  Edict 
of  Nantes  is  to  be  commemorated  throughout  the  Protestant  world.  It  is 
scarcely  probable  that  any  other  work  so  rich  in  historic  lore,  so  fresh  and 
full  of  varied  interest,  will  mark  this  memorable  year.  Dr.  Baird  is  a  born 
h'storian,  and  thoroughly  qualified  by  his  life-long  studies,  and  especially 
by  the  extensive  researches  which  he  has  made  in  the  archives  of  France 
and  Britain,  as  well  as  America.  The  result  of  his  studies  ^nd  labors  is  a 
work  of  great  and  permanent  value,  not  only  to  those  of  Huguenot  descent, 
but  to  all  who  take  an  interest  in  tracing  the  causes  and  reading  the  history 
of  the  early  settlement  of  this  continent." — New  York  Observer. 

BARK   (Mrs.  AMELIA  E.). 

Novels  as  follows  :  Each  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25.     Sets  of  the 

eleven  vols.,  boxed,  $13.75. 
JAN    VEDDER'S    WIFE. 
A    DAUGHTER    OF    FIFE. 
THE    BOW    OF    ORANGE    RIBBON. 
THE    SQUIRE    OF    SANDAL-SIDE. 
A    BORDER    SHEPHERDESS. 
PAUL    AND    CHRISTINA. 
MASTER    OF    HIS    FATE. 
REMEMBER    THE    ALAMO. 
THE    LAST    OF    THE    MACALLISTERS. 
BETWEEN    TWO    LOVES. 
FEET    OF    CLAY. 

"  I  want  to  thank  you  for  the  pleasure  I  have  had  in  reading  '  Jan 


DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

BAKU   (MRS.  AMELIA   E.).— CONTINUED. 

Vedder's  Wife."  It  is  the  most  natural  story  I  have  read  in  years,  and  is 
delightfully  fresh  and  true  from  beginning  to  end." — J.  HABBERTON. 

"'A  Daughter  of  Fife.'  A  good  story  touchingly  told  in  the  sea- 
tongue  of  the  Fife  fishermen.  These  tender  stories  of  broad  Scotch  dialect 
have  a  strong  and  mysterious  hold  upon  the  human  heart." — Washington 
Post. 

"  'The  Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon'  is  a  romance  pure  and  simple.  The 
love  tale  which  forms  the  main  thread  of  the  novel  is  a  singularly  pure  and 
touching  one.  The  story  contains  abundance  of  incident,  and  moves  rapidly 
and  easily." — The  Christian  Union, 

"  The  '  Squire  of  Sandal-Side '  is  one  of  those  agreeable  tales  of  a  sim 
ple,  broad  rural  life  which  Mrs.  Barr  tells  so  well.  It  breathes  a  large  and 
wholesome  atmosphere." — N.  Y.  7^ribune. 

"  '  Master  of  His  Fate'  is  in  some  respects  the  most  realistic  of  Mrs. 
Barr's  novels.  There  is  a  keen  power  and  fine  discrimination  in  the  char 
acter  drawing  that  makes  the  book  attractive  and  thoroughly  entertaining 
in  the  reading." — The  Gazette,  Boston. 

"  Judging  Mrs.  Barr  by  what  she  has  already  accomplished  and  com 
paring  it  carefully  with  the  productions,  as  wholes,  of  other  American 
women  in  the  same  field,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  it  superior  to  theirs 
in  its  entirety,  however  it  may  fall  below  in  separate  details.  And  so  it 
seems  to  me  Amelia  E.  Barr  may  very  well  rank  as  the  foremost  woman 
novelist  of  America." — OSCAR  FAY  ADAMS  in  A  ndover  A'eview. 

BATEMAN    (CHAS.    SOMERVILLE    LATROBE). 

THE  FIRST  ASCENT  OF  THE  KASAI  :  Being 
Some  Records  of  Service  Under  the  Lone  Star. 
By  Charles  Somerville  Latrobe  Bateman,  Some 
time  Captain  and  Adjutant  of  Gendarmerie  in  the 
Congo  Free  State.  Illustrated  by  5  lithographs  in 
color,  6  etchings,  2  maps,  6  full-page  engravings  on 
wood,  and  40  smaller  engravings  in  the  text.  8vo, 
$6.00. 

"  Doubtless  the  chief  claim  to  novelty  and  interest  that  my  little  work 
may  be  held  to  possess,  lies  v\  the  fact  that  it  is  less  a  record  of  discovery 
than  of  life  in  a  newly  discovered  land,  and  is  a  fair  illustration  of  the 
raison  d'etre  and  practical  working  of  the  Congo  State.  I  have  viewed  it  as 


CATALOGUE  OF  PUBLICATIONS.  7 

a  portion  of  my  own  experiences  :  it  is  but  fair  that  I  should  note  that  it  is 
possessed  of  a  much  higher  claim  to  public  attention.  It  gives  in  a  succinct 
form  no  inconsiderable  section  of  the  discoveries  of  the  German  expedition 
under  Lieut.  Wissman  and  Dr.  Wolf,  in  which  the  paths  of  other  explorers, 
Livingstone  and  Cameron,  Stanley  and  others,  are  crossed  and  united." — 
From  the  Author's  Preface. 

BELL   (ROBERT). 

SONGS  FROM  THE  DRAMATISTS.  Edited  with 
notes  and  biographical  sketches.  i  vol.,  i2mo, 
beautifully  bound  in  cloth  gilt,  $1.50. 

"  Lovers  of  quaint  and  delicious  things  in  poetry  will  take  delight  in 
this  collection.  The  author  has  in  this  volume  grasped  the  most  noted 
songs  from  the  English  dramatists,  beginning  with  the  writer  of  the  first 
regular  comedy  and  ending  with  Sheridan.  The  plan  upon  which  the  work 
is  arranged  furnishes  the  means  of  following  the  course  of  the  drama  histori 
cally,  and  tracing  in  its  progress  the  revolutions  of  style,  manners,  and  mor 
als  that  marked  successive  periods." —  Toledo  Telegram. 

BESANT  and  RICE. 

THE  NOVELS  OF  WALTER  BESANT  AND 
JAMES  RICE.  By  arrangement  with  Messrs. 
Chatto  &  Windus  of  London.  Library  edition, 
crown  8vo,  bound  in  cloth,  $1.50  per  volume.  Also 
8vo  in  paper,  35  cents  each. 

THE    GOLDEN    BUTTERFLY. 

BY    CELIA'S    ARBOUR. 

WITH    HARP    AND    CROWN. 

THE    CHAPLAIN    OF    THE    FLEET. 

THE    MONKS    OF    THELEMA. 

THE    CASE    OF    MR.    LUCRAFT. 

MY    LITTLE    GIRL. 

THE    TEN    YEARS'    TENANT. 

READY    MONEY    MORTIBOY. 

THE    SEAMY    SIDE. 


DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

BESANT    and    BICE.— CONTINUED. 

THIS    SON    OF    VULCAN. 

'TWAS    IN    TRAFALGAR'S    BAY. 

"  As  stories  every  one  of  these  has  its  individual  charm.  Their  men 
are  manly  and  their  women  are  womanly.  Honor  and  gentlehood  form  the 
theme  of  all  the  novels.  It  is  this  which  gives  them  their  potent  charm. 
To  the  fancy  of  these  writers  every  good  girl  is  a  princess,  and  every  young 
man  is  a  knight,  sworn  to  pay  her  reverence  and  to  defend  her  against  all 
breath  of  evil.  And  as  long  as  such  suggestions  appeal  to  the  truest  and 
highest  of  feelings,  Besant  and  Rice  will  have  a  deserved  popularity." — The 
Epoch. 

BOWLES  (EMILY). 

IN   THE  CAMARGUE.     A  novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

BROWN   (MARY  E.  and  WM.  ADAMS). 

MUSICAL  INSTRUMENTS  AND  THEIR  HOMES. 
With  270  illustrations  in  pen  and  ink  by  Wm. 
Adams  Brown.  The  whole  forming  a  complete 
catalogue  of  the  collection  of  musical  instruments 
now  in  the  possession  of  Mrs.  J.  Crosby  Brown,  of 
New  York.  4to,  $10.00.* 

"  One  may  peruse  this  volume  with  more  than  the  mere  gratification  af 
forded  by  a  stroll  through  a  museum  of  curiosities.  The  reader  is  under  the 
care  of  an  intelligent  guide,  who  will  explain  what  is  shown  and  philoso 
phize  over  what  is  explained,  and  in  the  course  of  the  process  impart  a  large 
amount  of  information,  much  of  it  novel  and  all  of  it  entertaining.  While 
for  students  of  musical  history  and  science  the  work  has  a  special  value,  it 
is  a  contribution  of  scholarship  for  which  all  readers  of  useful  books  and  all 
lovers  of  handsome  books  are  in  duty  bound  to  be  grateful." — Literary 
WorkL 

BROWNING  (ELIZABETH  BARRETT). 

POETICAL  WORKS  OF  MRS.  BROWNING.  5 
vols.,  i6mo,  handsomely  printed  on  fine  paper,  and 
bound  in  cloth,  with  gilt  side  and  back,  gilt'tops, 
$6.25. 


CA  TALOG  UE   OF  P UBLICA  TIONS.  9 

AURORA  LEIGH,     i  vol.,  cloth  gilt,  $1.50. 

"  Lovers  of  Mrs.  Browning  have  long  wished  for  a  complete  and  satis 
factory  American  edition  of  her  works.  There  has  indeed  been  a  positive 
need  of  such  an  edition.  That  need  is  now  filled  by  the  five  beautiful  vol 
umes  published  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company.  It  is  not  often  even  in  this 
age  of  good  book-making  that  a  handsomer  set  of  volumes  comes  under  the 
eye  of  the  reviewer  than  these." — Christian  Advertiser. 

BROWNING   (ROBERT). 

SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  POETRY  OF  ROBERT 
BROWNING.  With  an  introductory  essay  by 
Richard  Grant  White.  With  an  etched  portrait  by 
Ritchie.  i6mo,  cloth,  full  gilt,  $1.25. 

"  The  work  of  collecting  and  arranging  the  verses  was  done  by  half  a 
dozen  lovers  and  students  of  Mr.  Browning's  poetry,  and  Mr.  White's  task 
has  been  to  criticise  the  result  of  their  joint  labors,  which  were  modified  ac 
cording  to  his  suggestions.  This  he  explains  in  the  introduction,  and  of 
the  collection  itself  he  says  :  '  It  presents,  I  am  sure  and  presuming  enough 
to  say,  Browning  at  his  best,  and  nearly  all  the  best  of  Browning.'  " — Buf 
falo  Commercial  Advertiser. 

BRYAN   (MICHAEL). 

DICTIONARY  OF  PAINTERS  AND  ENGRAVERS. 
A  new  edition  from  entirely  new  plates.  Revised 
and  brought  down  to  date.  2  vols.,  imperial  8vo, 
cloth,  $24.00. 

"Since  the  appearance  of  the  last  edition  of  Bryan's  'Dictionary 
of  Painters  and  Engravers,'  which  was  issued  in  1849,  the  publication  of 
many  valuable  works  on  art  and  monographs  of  artists,  some  of  them  em 
bodying  the  results  of  careful  researches  among  city  records,  guild-books, 
and  church  registers,  particularly  in  Italy  and  in  the  Netherlands,  has  fur 
nished  many  new  sources  from  which  material  has  been  derived  for  the  cor 
rection  and  enlargement  of  this  work.  Most  especially  is  the  editor  indebted 
to  the  invaluable  work  of  Messrs.  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle,  Burckhardt,  Mi- 
lanesi  and  Morelli  on  the  Italian  painters,  of  Messrs.  Crowe  and  Cavalca 
selle,  Weale  and  Kramm  on  Flemish  and  Dutch  art,  and  of  the  late  Sii 
William  Stirling  Maxwell  on  the  artists  of  Spain. 


10  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

BRYAN  (MICHAEL).— CONTINUED. 

"  Besides  the  addition  of  a  large  number  of  names  which  were  not  in 
cluded  in  the  former  edition  or  its  supplement,  new  authority  has  been  given 
to  every  one  of  the  old  entries  by  a  careful  revision,  and  in  most  instances 
by  important  changes.  It  is  anticipated  that  the  new  matter  introduced  will 
enlarge  the  work  to  double  its  former  size." — From  the  Preface. 

BURCKHARDT   (JACOB). 

THE  CIVILIZATION  OF  THE  PERIOD  OF  THE 
RENAISSANCE  IN  ITALY.  2  vols.,  8vo,  illus 
trated,  $7.50. 

BURNS  (ROBERT). 

POETICAL  WORKS.  With  a  Memoir.  2  vols.,  i2mo, 
full  gilt  elegant,  cloth,  $3.00. 

CERVANTES  (MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES  SAA- 
VEDRA). 

THE  INGENIOUS  GENTLEMAN  DON  QUIXOTE 
OF  LA  MANCHA.  Translated,  with  introduction 
and  notes,  by  John  Ormsby.  4  vols. 

Limited  large-paper  edition,  50  copies  only,  $25.00. 

Library  edition,  i2mo,  cloth,  gold  side,  gilt  top,  $6.00. 
See  under  Ormsby. 

CHARLES   (Mrs.  ANDREW). 

STORIES,  as  follows :  each  in  i  vol.,  i2mo,  cloth, 
$1.00. 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY,  as 
Told  by  Two  of  Themselves,  ismo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

EARLY  DAWN  (THE)  ;  or,  Sketches  of  Christian  Life  in  Eng 
land  in  the  Early  Time. 

DIARY  OF  KITTY  TREVELYAN.  A  Story  of  the  Times  of 
Whitefield  and  the  Wesleys. 

WINIFRED  BERTRAM,  AND  THE  WORLD  SHE  LIVED  IN. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  II 

THE  DRAYTONS  AND  THE  DAVENANTS.  A  Story  of  the 
Civil  Wars. 

ON  BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  SEA.  A  Story  of  the  Common 
wealth  and  the  Restoration. 

THE  VICTORY  OF  THE  VANQUISHED.  A  Story  of  the  First 
Century. 

JOAN  THE  MAID,  DELIVERER  OF  FRANCE  AND  ENG 
LAND. 

LAPSED,  BUT  NOT  LOST.  A  Tale  of  Carthage  and  the  Early 
Church. 

NOTE-BOOK  OF  THE  BERTRAM  FAMILY.  A  Sequel  to 
"Winifred  Bertram." 

WOMEN  OF  CHRISTENDOM.  Being  Sketches  of  the  Lives  of 
the  Notable  Christian  Women  of  History. 

WATCHWORDS  FOR  THE  WARFARE  OF  LIFE.  Selected 
from  the  Writings  of  Luther. 

CONQUERING    AND    TO    CONQUER. 

AGAINST  THE  STREAM.  The  Story  of  an  Heroic  Age  in  Eng 
land. 

THREE    MARTYRS    OF    THE    XIX.    CENTURY. 

The  above  fifteen  volumes  are  furnished  boxed  if  desired, 

MARY  THE  HANDMAID  OF  THE  LORD.     i8mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

POEMS.     i8mo,  cloth. 

SONGS    WITHOUT    WORDS.     i6mo,  cloth. 

"The  moral  tendency  of  the  books  by  this  author  is  of  the  highest 
character,  and  as  she  is  wont  to  take  a  subject  which  brings  her  into  the  do 
main  of  religious  history  she  teaches  lessons  of  the  greatest  value  to  young 
and  old." — Ne-w  York  Observer. 

The  "  Chronicles  of  the  Schonberg-Cotta  Family "  illustrate  most 
charmingly  a  page  of  history  ;  to  young  people  the  dullest  and  driest,  per 
haps,  if  it  is  to  be  learned  by  D'Aubigne's  "  History  of  the  Reformation." 

Kitty  Trevelyan  is  a  sweet,  earnest-thinking  English  maiden  who  lived 
in  the  days  of  the  Wesleys,  and  has  her  orthodox  Church-of-England  piety 
somewhat  stirred  and  deepened  by  their  lives  and  preaching. 

In  the  "  Early  Dawn  "  the  Christian  life  of  England  in  the  olden  time  is 
depicted  through  several  centuries,  from  its  earliest  dawn,  in  its  contrasted 
lights  and  shadows  down  to  the  morning  star  of  the  Reformation. 

"Winifred  Bertram"  is  a  story  of  modern  life  with  its  scene  laid  in  the 
heart  of  London. 


12  DODD,  MEAD  &•>  COMPANY'S 

CHARLES    (Mrs.    ANDREW).— CONTINUED. 

"  The  Draytons  and  Davenants  "  starts  with  the  first  agitation  ol  Protes 
tantism  as  a  political  element  in  Great  Britain,  and  proceeds  through  the  civil 
wars  that  followed. 

In  "  On  Both  Sides  of  the  Sea,"  opening  with  the  tragic  scenes  of  the 
execution  of  Charles  I.,  we  have  presented  in  the  highly  dramatic  style  of 
the  author  the  establishment  of  the  Commonwealth  under  Cromwell. 

CHARLOTTE-ELIZABETH. 

JUDAH'S   LION.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

CHILD   (LYDIA  MARIA). 

LIFE  OF  ISAAC  T.  HOPPER.  A  new  edition  of 
this  stirring  book,  for  many  years  out  of  print. 
i2mo,  $1.00. 

"  Isaac  T.  Hopper,  with  his  knee-breeches,  boyish  jokes,  and  grand 
manly  character,  comes  upon  the  reviewer  like  an  old  friend.  When  the  re 
viewer  was  a  small  boy  Isaac  T.  Hopper  was  a  friend  of  the  household,  as  he 
was  of  many  Abolition  households  in  the  period  just  preceding  the  Secession 
war.  His  life  has  lost  nothing  of  interest  in  the  interval,  and  will  come  to 
a  new  generation  as  an  inspiration  to  a  noble  life." — Chicago  Alliance. 

CHURCH  (ALFRED   J.),  Professor  of  Latin  in 
University  College,  London. 

Each  i  vol.,  i2mo.  Illustrated  with  about  20  plates, 
many  in  color,  from  designs  by  Flaxman  and 
others.  Cloth,  per  vol.,  $1.50. 

Sets  of  this  author's  works,  boxed,  n  volumes,  $16.50. 

STORIES    FROM    HOMER. 

STORIES    FROM    VIRGIL. 

STORIES    FROM    THE    GREEK    TRAGEDIANS. 

STORIES    FROM    LIVY. 

ROMAN    LIFE    IN    THE    DAYS  OF    CICERO. 

STORIES    OF   THE    PERSIAN    WAR    FROM    HERODOTUS. 

STORIES    FROM    HERODOTUS. 


CATALOGUE   OF  P  UBLICA  TIONS.  1 3 

TWO    THOUSAND    YEARS    AGO;    OR  THE  ADVENTURES 

OF    A    ROMAN    BOY. 
STORIES    OF    THE    MAGICIANS. 
WITH    THE    KING    AT    OXFORD. 
THE    CHANTRY    PRIEST    OF    BARNET. 

"Alfred  J.  Church  has  done  for  the  classics  what  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb  did  for  Shakespeare,  and  what  the  former  proposed  to  do  at  one  time 
for  Beaumont  and  Fletcher." — Mail  and  Express. 

"  They  are  well  done,  open  the  way  well  to  classic  study,  are  full  of  in 
terest  on  their  own  account.  Excepting  the  Bible,  nothing  is  better,  if  any 
thing  is  so  good.  These  stories  have,  too,  this  advantage  over  the  ordinary 
moralizing  didactics,  that  they  are  strong  and  manly  and  exhibit  virtue  in 
a  large,  noble,  and  imposing  light,  not  shining  in  holiness,  perhaps,  but  free 
from  littleness  and  mannerism." — Independent. 

CLARK  (Rev.  EDSON  L.),  Member  of  the  Amer 
ican  Oriental  Society. 

THE     RACES     OF    EUROPEAN     TURKEY  — Their 
History,    Condition,    and     Future     Prospects.     8vo, 
cloth,  $1.50. 
See  "  Histories  of  *he  Old  World." 

COAN   (Rev.  TITUS). 

ADVENTURES    IN    PATAGONIA.     A    Missionary's 
Exploring  Trip.     I2mo,  $1.25. 

1 '  Rev.  Titus  Coan's  first  appointment  as  a  missionary  was  to  Patagonia, 
then  an  unknown  country,  which  he  was  commissioned  to  explore.  As 
would  be  imagined,  this  exploring  tour  was  full  of  thrilling  adventures,  and 
it  reads  very  much  like  the  narratives  of  the  explorers  of  America  three 
hundred  years  ago.  The  energy,  courage,  and  endurance  of  the  man  were 
wonderful." — Herald  and  Presbyter. 

COMYN  (S.  IS".). 
ELENA  :   An  Italian  Tale.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

COOK  (BUTTON.) 

DOUBLEDAY'S  CHILDREN.     A  Novel.     12010,  cloth, 
$1.00. 


14  JDODD,  MEAD  6"  COMPANY'S 

CORSON  (JULIET),  Superintendent  of  the  New 
York  Cooking  School. 

THE  COOKING  MANUAL  OF  PRACTICAL  DIREC 
TIONS  FOR  ECONOMICAL  EVERY-DAY  COOK 
ERY.  i8mo,  in  water-proof  covers,  50  cents. 

PRACTICAL  AMERICAN  COOKERY  AND  HOUSE 
HOLD  MANAGEMENT.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

RAND  AVERY  COMPANY,  Printers. 

BOSTON,  MASS.,  Dec.  4,  1886. 
Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &*  Company. 

DEAR  SIRS  :  I  think  the  best  testimonial  that  you  could  have,  or,  in 
fact,  could  be  given  to  any  book,  is  this:  Sixteen  of  the  hands  in  the  com 
position-room  where  your  Cook-Book  was  set  up,  who  saw  parts  or  the 
whole  of  it  or  knew  of  it,  have  been  so  much  pleased  with  the  work  that 
they  desire  to  purchase  a  copy  each,  and  have  asked  me  to  write  for  them. 
I  never  knew  a  book  go  through  the  office  before  which  there  was  such  a 
general  desire  to  own,  and  it  shows  there  must  be  something  in  it  that 
makes  it  specially  adapted  to  practical  home  use.  As  the  foreman  said,  it 
will  suit  all  kinds  of  appetites.  Please  send  us  by  express  17  copies. 

Yours  truly,  AVERY  L.  RAND,  Treas. 

COX  (KENYON). 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL.  By  Dante  Gabriel  Ros- 
setti,  with  illustrations  by  Kenyon  Cox.  Large  4to, 
cloth,  $15.00. 

"  The  drawings  seem  to  us  the  strongest  work  of  the  year  in  book  form 
and  that  which  is  most  likely  to  gain  in  reputation.  One  does  not  find  in 
cis- Atlantic  art  figures  so  well  used  for  artistic  purposes,  delicate  light  and 
shade  so  skilfully  managed,  panels  so  well  filled  with  decorative  forms." — 
The  Nation. 

CROWE  and  CAVALCASELLE. 

THE  LIFE  OF  TITIAN.  With  illustrations.  2  vols., 
8vo,  $7.50. 

"  No  such  gap  has  existed  in  the  history  of  art  as  that  which  is  filled  by 
the  present  volumes.  Everything  on  the  subject  is  now  superseded.  Here 
will  be  found  in  a 'digested  and  orderly  form  all  the  materials  gathered  by 
Jacobi,  Cadorin,  Bermudez,  Sandrart,  Hume,  Gachard,  Pungileoni,  Morelli, 
Lorenzi,  Campori,  and  others,  and  additional  information  of  great  value  de 
rived  from  the  letters  found  at  Simancas,  letters  from  Titian,  Charles  the 
Fifth,  Philip  the  Second,  and  others." — Athenaum,  May  10,  1877. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  1 5 

CRUDEN  (ALEXANDER). 

CRUDEN'S  COMPLETE  CONCORDANCE.  A  Dic 
tionary  and  Alphabetical  Index  to  the  Bible.  The 
Unabridged  Edition.  4to,  856  pages,  cloth,  $1.50; 
sheep,  $2.50  ;  half  morocco,  $3.50. 

By  which,  I.  Any  verse  in  the  Bible  may  be  readily  found  by  looking 
for  any  material  word  in  the  verse.  To  which  is  added  : 

II.  The  significations  of  the  principal  words,  by  which  their  true  mean 
ings  in  Scripture  are  shown. 

III.  An  account  of  the  Jewish  customs  and  ceremonies  illustrative  of 
many  portions  of  the  Sacred  Record. 

IV.  A  Concordance  to  the  Proper  Names  of  the  Bible,  and  their  mean 
ing  in  the  original. 

V.  A  Concordance  to  the  Books  called  the  Apocrypha. 
To  which  is  appended  an  original  life  of  the  Author. 

CUMBERSTONE  CONTEST  (THE), 

By  the  author  of  "  Battles  Worth  Fighting."  A  new 
edition.  i2mo,  cloth, 

CURZON  (ROBERT). 

MONASTERIES  OF  THE  LEVANT.  A  new  edition. 
i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

DANA  (Prof.  JAS.  D.),  Professor  of  Geology  in 
Yale  College,  author  of  "A  System  of  Min 
eralogy,"  etc. 

CORALS  AND  CORAL  ISLANDS.  Large  8vo,  with 
colored  frontispiece,  three  maps,  and  nearly  100  il 
lustrations.  Cloth,  extra,  $3.50. 

"  It  forms  a  thoroughly  exhaustive  treatise  on  the  natural  history  of 
corals,  in  which  the  present  state  of  knowledge  is  exhibited  in  a  method 
adapted  to  popular  reading,  but  without  any  sacrifice  of  scientific  precision. 
The  theme  comes  home  to  the  'bosoms  and  business'  of  so  many  of  our 
readers  that  they  will  doubtless  be  gratified  with  a  brief  account  of  the 
origin  and  nature  of  the  ornament  which  plays  so  conspicuous  a  part  in  the 
formation  of  certain  geological  localities." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 


16  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

DE  FOREST  (JULIA  B.). 

A  SHORT  HISTORY  OF  ART.  Octavo,  with  253  illus 
trations,  numerous  charts,  a  full  index  giving  the 
pronunciation  of  the  proper  names  by  phonetic 
spelling,  and  a  glossary.  $2.00. 

"It  is  a  library  of  art  histories  crystallized  into  a  most  useful  hand 
book.  The  author  has  made  by  far  the  best  text-book  for  beginners  in  art 
history  that  has  yet  appeared.  The  book  is  clear  and  vigorous  in  style,  and 
written  with  a  firmness  that  comes  of  sure  knowledge." — Literary  World. 

DE  LIEFDE  (J.  B.). 

THE  MAID  OF  STRALSUND.  An  Historical  Novel 
of  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

DOBSON  (AUSTIN). 

POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS.  2  volumes, 
i2mo,  beautifully  bound  in  cloth  gilt,  $4.00. 

These  volumes  are  issued  by  arrangement  with  Mr.  Dobson  and  con 
tain  the  two  volumes  originally  published  under  the  titles  of  "  Vignettes  in 
Rhyme  "  and  "  At  the  Sign  of  the  Lyre."  A  considerable  number  of  poems 
have  been  added  which  now  appear  for  the  first  time. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  says:  "  In  reviewing  these  poems  I  have 
felt  like  one  who  has  the  freedom  of  a  virtuoso's  collection — who  handles 
unique  and  precious  things,  fearing  that  his  clumsiness  may  leave  a  blem 
ish  or  in  some  way  cost  him  dear.  Artist  and  poet  at  once,  Mr.  Dobson 
reminds  me  of  Francia,  who  loved  to  sign  his  paintings  '  Aurifex,'  and  on  his 
trinkets  inscribed  the  word  '  Pictor,'  and  I  have  an  impression  that  rarely  of 
late  has  an  English  singer  offered  us  more  charming  portraits,  purer  touches 
of  nature,  more  picturesque  glimpses  of  a  manor  which  he  holds  in  fee." 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S  SERIES  OF  DOL 
LAR  NOVELS. 

Uniformly  bound  in  cloth  and  gold.     i2mo.  Each,  $1.00. 
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CAROLA.     By  HESBA  STRETTON. 
BEDE'S  CHARITY.     By  HESBA  STRETTON. 


CATALOGUE  OF  PUBLICATIONS.  I? 

HESTER  MORLEY'S  PROMISE.    By  HESBA  STRETTON. 

IN  PRISON  AND  OUT.     By  HESBA  STRETTON. 

COBWEBS  AND  CABLES.     By  HESBA  STRETTON. 

RAVENSHOE.     By  HENRY  KINGSLEY. 

GEOFFRY  HAMLYN.     By  HENRY  KINGSLEY. 

AUSTIN   ELLIOTT.     By  HENRY  KINGSLEY. 

LEIGHTON  COURT.     By  HENRY  KINGSLEY. 

THE  HILLYARS  AND  BURTONS.     By  HENRY  KINGSLEY. 

THE  MAID  OF  STRALSUND.     By  J.  B.  DE  LIEFDE. 

DOUBLEDAY'S  CHILDREN.     By  BUTTON  COOK. 

BROKEN  TO  HARNESS.     By  EDMUND  YATES. 

RUNNING  THE  GAUNTLET.     By  EDMUND  YATES. 

LINNET'S  TRIAL.     By  author  of  "  Twice  Lost." 

IN  THE  CAMARGUE.     By  EMILY  BOWLES. 

VICTORY  DEANE.     By  CECIL  GRIFFITH. 

AFTER  LONG  YEARS.     By  AUSBURN  TOWNER. 

MAINSTONE'S  HOUSEKEEPER. 

VI  NET  A.     By  ERNEST  WERNER. 

ELENA.     By  L.  N.  COMYN. 

CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH.     By  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 

FORGING  THEIR  CHAINS.     By  MARY  A.  ROE. 

MARGARET.     By  C.  C.  FRAZER  TYTLER. 

THE  STARLING.     By  NORMAN  MACLEOD. 

SIR  TOM.     By  Mrs.  OLYPHANT. 

GAUTRAN;  or,  The  House  of  White  Shadows.     By  B.  L.  FARJEON. 

A  GOLDEN  SHAFT.     By  CHARLES  GIBBON. 

GIDEON  FLEYCE.     By  H.  W.  LUCY. 

THE  SECRET  DISPATCH.     By  JAMES  GRANT. 

HOW  IT  ALL  CAME  ROUND.     By  L.  T.  MEADE. 

THE  LILLINGSTONES  OF  LILLINGSTONE.     By  E.  J.  WORBOISE. 

WINIFRED  POWER. 

A  LONG  SEARCH.     By  MARY  A.  ROE. 

A  SEA  QUEEN.     By  W.  CLARKE  RUSSELL. 

THE  CANON'S  WARD.     By  PAYN. 

TO  THE  BITTER  END.     By  Mrs.  BRADDON. 

MR.  SCARBOROUGH'S  FAMILY.     By  TROLLOPE. 


IS  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

DQLLINGER  (Dr.  J.  J.  VON). 

FABLES  RESPECTING  THE  POPES  OF  THE  MID 
DLE  AGES.  Translated  by  Alfred  Plummer.  To 
gether  with  Dr.  Dollinger's  Essay  on  the  Prophetic 
Spirit  and  the  Prophecies  of  the  Christian  Era.  Trans 
lated  for  the  American  edition,  with  introduction  and 
notes  to  the  whole  work,  by  Prof.  H.  B.  Smith, 
D.D.  Large  i2mo,  $2.25. 

DOUGLAS  (MARIAN). 

PETER  AND  POLLY  ;  or,  Home  Life  in  New  England 
a  Hundred  Years  Ago.  i6mo,  cloth,  75  cents. 

ECONOMICAL  PRIMARY.    No.    1. 

For  the  Infant  Class.  40  vols.,  i8mo.  Every  volume 
filled  with  pictures.  Sold  in  sets  only,  $7.50. 

THORNTON'S   COURAGE.  DICK  AND   GRACE. 

GREY   WOLF.  BOBBY   SHAFTO. 

TOM'S   LITTLE   MAID.  FISHER   BOY. 

LOST   IN   THE   SNOW.  JACK   GREENE. 

JERRY    BRIGHT.  A   LONG  DAY. 

HORACE  COL  E'SACC  I-  UNCLE  DICK'S  PORT- 
DENT.  FOLIO. 

DIAMOND   PIN.  BOOK   ABOUT  INDIANS. 

WHO  FOUND  BOBBY  AND  HAL  FOOT  E'S  W  A  L- 
HIS  MOTHER.  NUTS. 

LAZY   ROGER.  DAY   IN   THE   WOODS. 

PICNIC   OF  TWO.  CHRISTMAS   AT   SCHOOL. 

THE   WRECK.  TOM'S   AQUARIUM. 

DREADFUL   DAY.  A   WET   AFTERNOON. 

TWO   VERSES.  JACK'S    LESSON. 

RUTH'S    TEST.  LOST   DOTTIE   PRINGLE. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


JIM. 

THE   GREAT   SURPRISE. 

UNCLE   NED'S   VISIT. 

THE    RAINY    DAY. 

NELLY'S    ILLNESS. 

A   WINTER   STORY. 


A   CHILDREN'S   PARTY. 
LITTLE   FOLKS'    SONGS. 
LITTLE  NURSERY  SONGS. 
TOBY'S   HELPERS. 
THE   POACHER'S   SON. 
A    STORY   OF   THE    SEA. 


ECONOMICAL  PRIMARY,  No.   2. 

For  the  Infant  Class.     40  vols.,    i8mo.     Each  volume 
filled  with  pictures.     Sold  in  sets  only,  $7.50. 


JIM'S  MISHAP. 

SHAGGY  DOG. 

WINTER  BY  THE  SEA. 

BESSIE'S  VISIT. 

BEN  DERRICK. 

HEEDLESS  HARRY. 

ALL  THE  GREYS. 

ROB.  JOHNSON'S  RESCUE. 

CAPT.  JACK. 

NETTIE  MORGAN. 

HUGH  GILES. 

CHRIS.  AT   GRANDPAPA'S. 

BLOCKED  TRAIN. 

MISS  ESTELLE. 

UNCLE  JACK'S  MEDI- 
CINE. 

WHOSE   FAULT  WAS    IT? 

ELISE. 

POOR  MRS.  ELY. 

UNCLE    DICK'S    YACHT. 

KATIE'S    ADVENTURE. 

A  WEEK  AT  GRANDMAM 
MA'S. 


REGGIE'S    CHRISTMAS. 

SIDNEY  THE  FI  SHER 
MAN. 

NETTLES. 

RUTH'S  PRESENT. 

GRANDMAMMA 'IS  SUR 
PRISE  PARTY. 

THE   PURSE   OF   GOLD. 

REGINALD'S   VACATION. 

LOTTIE'S   BIRTHDAY. 

DOTTIE'S  BED-QUILT. 

MAGGIE'S   DREAM. 

THE    LOST    KNIFE. 

HARRY'S    GARDEN. 

STEVIE'S    VISIT. 

A  SUMMER  AT  AUNT 
HELEN'S 

HOW  THEY  FOUND  PUS 
SY. 

RALPH'S    REPENTANCE. 

TROT. 

TOM    AND    HIS    MONKEY. 

THE    SAILING   PARTY. 


20  DODD,  MEAD  &>  COMPANY'S 

EDWARDS  (TRYON,  D.D.). 

THE  WORLD'S  LACONICS  ;  or,  the  Best  Thoughts  of 
the  Best  Authors,  in  Prose  and  Poetry.  i2mo,  cloth, 
$1.00. 

EGGLESTON   (EDWARD   and  GEORGE  CARY) 
and  LILLIE  EGGLESTON   SEELYE. 

FAMOUS  AMERICAN  INDIANS.  A  series  illustrative 
of  Early  American  History.  Each  in  one  handsome 
volume,  illustrated  with  maps  and  engravings.  Uni 
formly  bound.  lamo,  cloth,  per  volume,  $1.00. 

TECUMSEH  AND  THE  SHAWNEE  PROPHET.  By  EDWARD 
EGGLESTON  and  LILLIE  EGGLESTON  SEELYE. 

RED  EAGLE.     By  GEORGE  GARY  EGGLESTON. 

POCAHONTAS.     By  EDWARD  EGGLESTON  and  Mrs.  SEELYE.       • 

BRANDT  AND  RED  JACKET.     By  the  same. 

MONTEZUMA.    By  the  same. 

These  books  deal  with  the  most  romantic  period  of  American  history. 
Tecumseh,  the  greatest  of  the  Shawnees,  was  perhaps  the  greatest  genius  of 
his  race  known  in  the  annals  of  our  country.  The  Life  of  Red  Eagle  throws 
light  on  the  Creek  War,  which  broke  out  in  Alabama  in  1813,  and  was  final 
ly  brought  to  an  end  by  the  bloody  battle  of  Tohopeka,  fought  by  Jackson 
in  1814. 

In  "  Montezuma  "  the  authors  have  told  the  ever-interesting  story  of  the 
Aztecs  and  their  last  emperors  in  language  at  once  simple  and  attractive. 
In  "  Brandt  and  Red  Jacket "  we  have  again  the  thrilling  accounts  of  the 
struggles  of  our  forefathers  in  the  Middle  States,  while  Pocahontas  takes  us 
to  the  first  settlement  of  the  Old  Dominion. 

ELLWANGER   (H.   B.). 

THE  ROSE— Its  Cultivation,  Varieties,  etc.,  etc.  i6mo, 
cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Mr.  Ellwanger's  connection  with  one  of  the  largest  nurseries  in  Amer 
ica,  which  has  yearly  imported  the  new  varieties  of  merit  as  they  have  ap 
peared  and  given  them  extensive  cultivation,  has  placed  unusual  advantages 


CATALOGUE   OF  P  UBLICA  TIONS.  2 1 

within  his  reach,  which  he  has  successfully  improved.  In  addition  to  the 
valued  directions  for  cultivation — for  planting,  pruning,  propagation,  the 
treatment  of  diseases  and  insect  enemies — the  work  is  rendered  particularly 
valuable  for  its  classification,  and  for  the  full  alphabetical  and  descriptive 
list  of  nine  hundred  and  fifty-six  varieties.  We  are  glad  to  commend  this 
work,  which  is  the  result  of  great  care  and  much  labor." — Cultivator  and 
Country  Gentleman. 

EMIN  PASHA. 

EMIN  PASHA  IN  CENTRAL  AFRICA:  Being  a  Col 
lection  of  His  Letters  and  Journals.  Edited  and 
Annotated  by  Professor  G.  Schweinfurth,  Professor 
F.  Ratzel,  Dr.  R.  W.  Felkin,  and  Dr.  G.  Hartlaub. 
"With  two  portraits,  a  map,  and  notes.  Octavo, 
$5.00. 

Emin  Pasha  forms  at  the  present  time  the  central  point  around  which 
all  the  interest  of  Central  Africa  revolves.  This  volume  contains  a  collec 
tion  of  letters  and  extracts  from  journals  which  he  sent  to  various  corre 
spondents  in  Europe  during  his  residence  in  the  Egyptian  Soudan.  We 
quote  a  few  lines  from  the  Introduction  : 

"  From  the  very  first  this  determined  man  threw  himself  heart  and  soul 
into  his  work,  and  as  he  sought  a  sphere  of  labor  amongst  people  of  foreign 
customs  and  modes  of  thought,  he  was  perfectly  willing  to  give  up  every 
external  indication  which  might  stand  in  the  way  of  his  obtaining  an  un 
hampered  entrance  into  the  Mohammedan  world.  Far  away  from  large 
cities  where,  under  the  guise  of  fashion,  European  habits  are  continually 
undermining  the  ancient  and  crumbling  customs  of  Islam,  and  at  the  same 
time  covering  them  with  a  thick  varnish,  there  obtains  a  certain  distrust  of 
a  solitary  European,  which  prevents  the  intimate  relation  that  should  char 
acterize  the  intercourse  of  a  doctor  with  suffering  mankind.  The  German 
humanitarian  believed  it  only  possible  to  fulfil  his  office  satisfactorily  by  per 
mitting  no  external  evidence  of  his  Frankish  origin  to  appear.  The  name 
he  chose  for  this  purpose  was  Emin,  '  the  faithful  one,'  and  certainly  no  one 
has  ever  proved  himself  more  worthy  of  bearing  such  a  name  as  the  descrip 
tion  of  his  character.  An  extraordinary  gift  for  the  acquisition  of  foreign 
languages  lightened  his  task,  for,  besides  German,  French,  English,  and 
Italian,  he  mastered  several  Slavonic  languages,  as  well  as  Turkish  and 
Arabic.  He  also  commenced  to  learn  Persian,  and  who  knows  in  how 
many  Central  African  dialects  he  may  not  now  be  at  home  ?" 


22  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

ETCHINGS. 

TWENTY-FIVE  EXAMPLES  OF  THE  BEST  MOD- 
ERN  ETCHERS.  Such  as  Appian,  Jacquemart 
Detaille,  Martial,  Lepage,  Bicknell,  Buhot,  Daubig- 
ny,  Casanova,  etc.  Folio,  with  descriptive  text  bj 
William  Howe  Downs,  G.  W.  Ritchie,  etc.,  witt 
rich  binding,  cloth,  $15.00. 

FARJEON   (B.  L.). 

GAUTRAN  ;  or,  The  House  of  White  Shadows.  A 
Novel.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

FENELON   (Archbishop). 

CHRISTIAN  COUNSEL  AND  SPIRITUAL  LET- 
TERS.  i8mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

FERGUSSON   (JAMES). 

A  HISTORY  OF  ARCHITECTURE  IN  ALL  COUN- 
TRIES,  from  the  earliest  times  to  the  present  day 
Uniform  with  Lubke's  History  of  Art.  2  vols. 
8vo,  with  1015  illustrations,  half  roan,  $7.50  ;  hal 
morocco,  $12.50. 

FINLEY   (MARTHA). 

THE  ELSIE   BOOKS.     Per  vol.,  $1.25.      15  vols.  in 
box,  i2mo,  cloth,  $18.75. 

ELSIE  DINSMORE.  ELSIE'S  NEW  RELATIONS 

ELSIE'S   GIRLHOOD.  ELSIE    AT    NANTUCKET. 

ELSIE'S    HOLIDAYS     AT        THE   TWO    ELSIES. 

ROSELANDS.  ELSIE'S    KITH    AND    KIN. 

ELSIE'S   WOMANHOOD.  ELSIE'S    FRIENDS    A' 

ELSIE'S    MOTHERHOOD.  WOODBURN. 

ELSIE'S  CHILDREN.  CHRISTMAS  WITH  GRAND 

ELSIE'S  WIDOWHOOD.  MA  ELSIE. 

GRANDMOTHER  ELSIE.         ELSIE  AND  THE  RAYMONDS 
"  The  one  cause  of  this  author's  popularity  among  thoughtful  peopi 


CATALOG UE  OF  P UBLICA  TIONS.  23 

is  that  she  never  neglects  to  inculcate  the  doctrines  of  upright  living  and 
Christian  integrity,  and  the  charming  stories  of  domestic  life  that  she  has 
given  us  are  told  in  so  delightful  a  manner  that  one  becomes  quite  as  in 
terested  in  reading  them  as  the  more  sensational  books  of  the  day." — De 
troit  Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  author  of  the  Elsie  Books  is  not  a  stranger  to  youthful  readers, 
especially  to  the  girls,  with  whom  she  is  a  great  favorite.  Her  stories  are 
pure  and  good,  and  yet  full  of  incident  which  interests  and  holds  the  at 
tention,  but  does  not  unduly  excite.  Such  books  as  this  are  healthful  in 
their  influence. 

THE   MILDRED  BOOKS.     A  Companion  Series  to  the 
Elsie  Books.     Per  vol.,  $1.25.     7  vols  in  box,  $8.75. 

MILDRED   KEITH.  MILDRED    AND    ELSIE. 

MILDRED    AT    ROSE-  MILDRED    AT    HOME. 

LANDS.  MILDRED'S  BOYS  AND 
MILDRED'S  MARRIED  GIRLS. 

LIFE.  A    NEW    MILDRED    BOOK. 

"  In  a  sweet,  simple  strain  the  author  tells  the  story  of  her  characters, 
their  romances,  their  joys,  and  their  sorrows.  Miss  Finley  portrays  so 
beautiful  a  Christian  spirit  pervading  the  households  and  individuals  she 
represents,  that  religion  through  them  seems  very  attractive." — Christian 
Observer. 

CASELLA.     A   Tale  of  the   Waldenses.     i2mo,  cloth, 
$1.25. 

OUR    FRED  ;     or,  Seminary  Life  at  Thurston.     i2mo, 

cloth,  $1.25. 

OLD-FASHIONED   BOY.     i2mo,  $1.25. 
WANTED,   A    PEDIGREE.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 
THE  THORN  IN  THE  NEST.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 
SIGNING  THE  CONTRACT,  AND  WHAT  IT  COST. 

i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

"This  story  is  original  in  plan,  written  in  a  natural  tone,  at  many 
points  extremely  touching,  and  possessing  interest  for  all  those  readers 
who  like  fiction  which  develops  lessons  of  a  highly  spiritual  character." 
— Literary  World. 


24  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

FISH  (HENRY  C.,  D.D.). 

HISTORY  AND  REPOSITORY  OF  PULPIT  ELO 
QUENCE.  (Deceased  Divines.)  Two  vols.  in  one. 
8vo,  over  1200  pages,  cloth,  $3.00. 

PULPIT  ELOQUENCE  OF  THE  NINETEENTH 
CENTURY.  8vo,  cloth,  with  supplement  contain 
ing  additional  discourses,  $3.00. 

FREER  (MARTHA  WALKER). 

HENRY  III.,  KING  OF  FRANCE  AND  POLAND. 
From  numerous  unpublished  sources,  including 
MS.  documents  in  the  Biblioth^que  Imperiale,  and 
the  archives  of  France,  Italy,  etc.  By  Martha 
Walker  Freer,  author  of  the  "  Life  of  Marguerite 
d'Angouleme,"  "  Elizabeth  de  Valois  and  the  Court 
of  Philip  II.,"  etc.,  etc.  In  3  vols.,  8vo,  $7.50. 

"  The  history  is  one  of  singular  interest.  Henry  III.  was  a  poor 
weakling  ;  his  mother  was  a  thoroughly  bad  woman  ;  his  brother,  though 
a  person  of  good  intentions  at  most  times,  was  feeble  of  will  and  none  too 
strong  in  intellect  ;  his  sister,  Marguerite  of  Valois,  although  the  best  of 
a  bad  family  and  not  without  her  attractive  traits,  is  not  a  woman  one  can 
thoroughly  respect.  Nevertheless  as  people  need  not  be  good  to  be  in 
teresting  this  is  a  most  interesting  period  of  history  and  Mrs.  Freer,  has 
written  about  it  in  a  most  interesting  manner." — Epoch,  N.  Y. 

GARRETT'S   (EDWARD)   WORKS. 

A  new  edition,  bound  in  uniform  style.  i2mo,  cloth, 
per  vol.,  $1.00.  The  set  in  a  box,  14  vols.,  $14.00. 

DOING   AND   DREAMING. 

BY   STILL  WATERS. 

GOLD   AND   DROSS;   or,    Hester   Capel's   Inheritance. 

CROOKED   PLACES.     A   Story   of  Struggles   and   Triumphs. 

PREMIUMS   PAID   TO   EXPERIENCE. 


CATALOGUE    OF  PUBLICATIONS.  25 

THE    DEAD   SIN,   AND   OTHER   STORIES. 

THE   OCCUPATIONS   OF   A   RETIRED   LIFE. 

THE   CRUST   AND   THE   CAKE. 

THE    HOUSE  BY   THE  WORKS. 

FAMILY   FORTUNES. 

HER   OBJECT   IN   LIFE. 

AT   ANY   COST. 

EQUAL  TO   THE   OCCASION. 

JOHN   WINTER.     A  Story  of  the  Harvest. 

"  There  is  a  quiet  charm  about  the  writings  of  Edward  Garrett,  a 
simple  purity  of  thought,  a  high,  but  unpretending  range  of  sentiment,  a 
tender  piety  without  Phariseeism,  an  expression  and  fulfilment,  in  fine, 
of  culture  and  modest  Christianity,  which  is  peculiarly  satisfying  to  the 
soul  in  these  times  of  worldly  worry  and  worldly  intensity." — N.  Y.  Even 
ing  Mail. 

Mr.  Garretl  has  done  good  service  in  giving  these  wholesome  stories 
to  the  public.  Without  a  word  of  preaching,  each  points  unerringly  to  the 
right  course,  and  not  only  young  men  and  women,  but  older  people, 
may  learn  many  valuable  lessons  from  their  silent  teaching. 

"  '  Crooked  Places'  tells  a  healthful  story  of  an  English  family  reduced 
from  wealth  to  poverty,  who  overcame  trials,  and  emerged  from  their  strug 
gles  purified  and  developed." — Christian  Era. 

"  The  great  value  of  Doing  over  Dreaming  is  illustrated  by  the  history 
of  two  families  who  lived  side  by  side,  and  the  principle  and  necessity  of 
having  a  worthy  purpose  in  life,  or  an  object  to  live  for,  and  a  willingness 
to  do  whatever  is  necessary  to  gain  the  end  in  view,  is  enforced  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  show  the  dignity  and  honorableness  of  such  a  course  over  a 
time-serving  policy." — St.  Louis  Evangelist. 

"  The  major  part  of  the  stories  in  '  The  Dead'Sin,'  etc.,  have  a  decided 
moral  tone  and  an  equally  decided  merit.  In  so  far  as  stories  may  read  like 
actual  facts  we  think  these  deserve  the  palm." — Philadelphia  Age. 

"At  Any  Cost"  has  its  commencement  in  the  largest  of  the  Shetland 
Isles,  the  wild,  rugged  scenery  of  which  is  brought  vividly  before  the 
mind's  eye,  while  the  fresh,  strong  breezes  of  the  North  Sea  come  invigo- 
ratingly  on  the  senses.  The  characters  of  the  two  youths,  Tom  Ollison  and 
Robert  Sinclair,  are  as  far  asunder  as  the  poles,  and  their  development  in 
the  course  of  the  story  preserves  their  peculiar  lines  of  thought  and  modes 
of  action  intact.  Although  both  young  men  achieve  success  in  the  world  of 
London,  where  they  arrive  in  company,  their  roads  lie  far  apart,  and  to 
neither  would  the  position  attained  by  the  other  have  presented  anything  in 
which  to  rejoice  as  the  climax  of  his  desires. 


26  DODD,  MEAD  &*  COMPANY'S 

GIBBS  (ALFRED   S.). 

GOETHE'S  MOTHER.  Correspondence  of  Catharin< 
Elizabeth  Goethe  with  Goethe,  Lavater,  Wielanc 
Duchess  of  Saxe-Weimar,  and  others.  Translate! 
from  the  German,  with  the  addition  of  Biographica 
Sketches  and  Notes  by  Alfred  S.  Gibbs,  and  an  In 
troductory  Note  by  Clarence  Cook.  8vo,  cloth,  $2.00 

"The  most  conspicuous  name  among  the  mothers  of  literary  men 
that  of  Catharine  Elizabeth  Goethe.  It  was  from  her  that  her  famous  so 
derived  the  elements  of  his  greatness.  'This  volume  is  made  up  of  her  co 
respondence  with  her  son,  Lavater.  Wieland,  and  others.  The  addition  c 
copious  notes  renders  the  work  more  nearly  a  biography  than  a  simple  con 
pilation  of  letters.  The  atmosphere  which  one  breathes  in  reading  thes 
familiar  epistles  is  full  of  the  most  intense  vitality,  at  once  human  and  inte 
lectual.'  " — Boston  Courier. 

OILMAN   (ARTHUR,  M.A.). 

SHAKESPEARE'S   MORALS.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

"  This  volume  displays  an  intelligent  mind  at  work  amid  the  riches  c 
Shakespeare  collating  and  collecting  kindred  excellences.  The  scheme  c 
the  book  is  an  arrrangement  of  careful  selections  under  heads  that  compn 
hend  moral  teachings.  Joined  with  these  extracts  are  brief  collateral  reading 
and  Scriptural  references.  Thus  we  are  offered  a  fair  epitome  of  the  utte; 
ances  of  Shakespeare  on  ethical  and  religious  themes." — Boston  Transcrip 

GLADDEN  (Rev.  WASHINGTON). 

THE  CHRISTIAN  WAY.    Whither  It  Leads  and 
to  Go  On.     i6mo,  cloth,  75  cents. 

GOSSE   (EDMUND). 

FROM  SHAKESPEARE  TO  POPE.  An  Inquiry  int 
the  Causes  and  Phenomena  of  the  Rise  of  Classics 
Poetry  in  England.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.75. 

"  There  is  no  student  of  literary  history  more  thorough  than  M: 
Gosse.  While  there  are  very  few  who  can  approach  him  in  sympathet: 
insight  into  the  beauties  and  the  characteristics  of  the  authors  of  whom  h 
writes.  A  poet  himself  of  no  mean  gifts,  he  is  able  to  approach  his  subjet 
from  the  side  of  the  lover  of  literature." — Boston  Courier, 


CATALOGUE   OF  P  UBL1CA  TIONS.  2  7 

GOULD   (BARING). 

HISTORY    OF    GERMANY.      8vo,    cloth,   $1.50. 

See  "  Histories  of  the  Old  World." 

GOULDING  (F.  R.). 

THE  YOUNG  MAROONERS.  With  introduction  by 
Joel  Chandler  Harris  (Uncle  Remus),  with  8  double- 
page  illustrations.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

MAROONER'S  ISLAND.  With  six  double-page  il 
lustrations  by  W.  C.  Jackson.  Uniform  with  "  The 
Young  Marooners."  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  WOODRUFF  STORIES.  Sapelo  —  Narcooche— 
Saloquah.  A  new  edition  of  these  entertaining  sto 
ries.  "With  six  illustrations  by  W.  C.  Jackson,  i 
vol.,  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

"  It  has  been  written  with  truth  that  the  'Young  Marooners'  is  known 
in  many  lands  and  languages.  It  has  become  a  permanency — a  classic  so  to 
speak.  It  is  vigorous,  interesting,  suggestive.  Every  boy  and  girl  will 
thank  you  for  a  copy." — Item,  Philadelphia. 

GREELY  (Gen.  A.  W.). 

AMERICAN  WEATHER.  A  popular  exposition  of 
the  phenomena  of  the  weather,  including  chapters 
on  Hot  and  Cold  Waves,  Blizzards,  Hail-Storms 
and  Cyclones,  etc.,  etc.  Illustrated  with  engravings 
and  twenty-four  charts.  8vo,  $2.50. 

"  The  object  of  the  present  work  is  to  give  clearly  and  simply  without 
the  use  of  mathematics  an  idea  of  meteorology.  The  introductory  chapters 
treat  briefly  the  methods  of  measuring  atmospheric  pressure,  temperature, 
and  other  meteorological  phenomena,  while  the  rest  of  the  book  is  a  detailed 
climatology  of  the  United  States.  The  various  phenomena  are  fully  dis 
cussed  and  illustrated  by  numerous  maps  which  convey  a  peculiar  interest  to 
the  book.  The  vast  amount  of  material  collected  by  the  Signal  Service  and 
the  State  meteorological  services  has  been  made  use  of  and  makes  the  book 
a  very  complete  and  comprehensive  review  of  the  climatology  of  the  United 
States." — Science. 


28  DODD,  MEAD  <5r>  COMPANY'S 

GRAY  (THOMAS). 

POETICAL  WORKS,  i  vol.,  I2mo,  full  gilt  elegant, 
cloth,  $1.50, 

GRIFFITH  (CECIL). 

VICTORY  DEAN.     A  Novel.     121110,  cloth,  $1.00. 
GUERNSEY  (LUCY  ELLEN). 

AGNES  WARRINGTON'S  MISTAKE.  i6mo,  cloth, 
75  cents. 

HALEVY  (LUDOVIC),  of  L'AcadSmie  Frai^aise. 

THE  ABBE  CONSTANTIN.  Illustrated  by  Madelaine 
Lemaire.  De  Luxe  edition,  printed  in  Paris  from 
the  original  photogravures,  with  an  English  trans 
lation  of  the  novel.  4to,  $25.00. 

Library  edition,  with  all  the  illustrations  reproduced  by 
the  Ives  process.  i2mo,  paper,  $1.75  ;  silk,  $3.50. 

HALL  (JOHN,  D.D.). 

GOD'S  WORD  THROUGH  PREACHING.  Being 
the  Yale  Lectures  for  1875.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

PAPERS  FOR  HOME  READING.  lamo,  cloth, 
with  portrait,  $1.25. 

QUESTIONS  OF  THE  DAY.     i2mo,  cloth,    $1.25. 

FAMILIAR  TALKS  TO  BOYS.    i6mo,  cloth,  50  cents. 

" The  discussions  in  God's  Word  through  preaching  relate  to  every 
branch  of  a  minister's  duties  and  experience.  There  is  a  vigorous  sense  in 
the  author's  thought  and  style.  He  strikes  each  subject  with  remarkable 
precision  and  force.  The  effect  produced  upon  hearer  and  reader  is  most 
wholesome." —  Watchman  and  Reflector. 

HARLAND  (MARION). 

A  GALLANT  FIGHT.     A  Novel.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 
" '  A  Gallant  Fight '  is  the  title  of  a  new  novel  by  Marion  Harland. 


CATALOGUE  OF  PUBLICATIONS,  29 

The  scene  is  laid  in  New  England,  of  which  the  author  writes  with  the  fidel 
ity  of  long  familiarity  and  close  observation,  and  the  moral  struggle  which 
gives  the  tale  its  title  is  a  clever  study  of  the  conflict  of  natural  and  educated 
motives." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

HARRISON  (JENNIE). 
LITTLE  BOOTS.     I2mo,  cloth. 
THE  OLD  BACK-ROOM.     I2mo,  cloth. 

HEROES  OF  CHIVALRY. 

Being  the  Life  of  the  Chevalier  Bayard  and  the  Chroni 
cle  of  the  Cid.  Bound  in  one  volume  of  nearly  700 
pages,  with  many  illustrations.  Quarto,  strikingly 
bound  in  cloth,  gilt,  $2.50. 

HERRICK  (CHRISTINE  TERHUNE). 

See  WELLINGTON,  DUKE  OF. 

HESSE-WARTEGG  (CHEVALIER  DE). 

TUNIS.  The  Land  and  the  People.  With  22  illustra 
tions,  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.75. 

"  M.  Hesse-Wartegg  possesses  a  simple,  straightforward  method  of 
description,  good  literary  style,  and  excellent  judgment. 

"  The  narrative  opens  with  a  cursory  glance  at  the  political  history  of 
the  Regency  from  the  seventh  century  down  to  the  present  time.  It  is 
shown  that  though  the  native  governing  powers  have  changed  many  times 
and  the  country  finally  fallen  under  foreign  dominion,  its  old-time  grandeur 
and  wealth  replaced  by  squalor  and  poverty,  the  people  throughout  have  re 
mained  the  same,  and  preserved  the  primitive  originality  of  their  customs 
and  usages." — Art  Interchange. 

HISTORIES   OF  THE   OLD  WORLD.      A   Series  of 
Popular  Histories.     Each  i  vol.,  8vo,  with   frontis 
piece.     Cloth,  extra,  per  vol.,  $1.50. 
ITALY.        -j  TURKEY.  By  EDSON  L.  CLARKE. 

5SfTRT'A     K        ^,  EGYPT.    By  J.  C.  McCoAN. 

AUS     RIA.        Jo  HNS.  C.ABBOTT. 

PRUSSIA.  J    '  GERMANY.   By  BARING  GOULD. 


3°  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

HOLDER  (CHAS.  FREDERICK). 

A  FROZEN  DRAGON,  AND  OTHER  TALES.  A 
Story  Book  of  Natural  History  for  Boys  and  Girls. 
Illustrated  by  J.  C.  Beard,  D.  C.  Beard,  J.  M.  Nugent, 
and  others,  from  sketches  by  the  author.  By  C.  F. 
Holder,  author  of  "  The  Ivory  King,"  "  Marvels  of 
Animal  Life,"  "Elements  of  Zoology,"  "  A  Strange 
Company,"  "  Living  Lights,"  etc.  4to,  cloth,  $2.00. 

"  This  book  deals  with  the  facts  of  natural  history  in  the  familiar  tone 
which  brings  them  easily  in  the  grasp  of  children  and  interests  while  it  in 
structs.  The  facts  of  natural  history  here  embodied  are  well  interwoven 
and  interspersed  with  entertaining  stories  of  animals,  and  the  whole  is  ex 
ceedingly  well  illustrated  by  many  full-page  pictures  and  numerous  smaller 
cuts." — Chicago  Dial. 

HONE  PHILIP  (DIARY  OF). 

Edited  with  Notes,  etc.,  by  Bayard  Tuckerman.  2  vols., 
large  thick  octavo,  with  portrait,  cloth,  $7.50. 

Philip  Hone,  a  member  of  an  old  Knickerbocker  family,  led  a  life  of 
uncommon  usefulness  and  prominence  during  the  first  half  of  the  present 
century.  He  was  one  of  the  few  men  of  his  time  in  America  who  had  the 
leisure  to  keep  a  diary  and  the  varied  experience  to  make  such  a  record 
valuable  to  posterity.  Having  accumulated  a  considerable  fortune  as  a 
merchant,  he  retired  from  business  while  still  in  middle  life  and  devoted  his 
energies  to  public  services,  both  political  and  industrial.  He  held  the  office 
of  Mayor  of  New  York  and  for  many  years  was  high  in  the  counsels  of  the 
Whig  party.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Delaware  and  Hudson 
Canal  Co.  and  of  many  similar  enterprises  when  canals  and  railways  were 
still  experiments.  As  Vestryman  of  Trinity  Church,  Trustee  of  Columbia 
College  and  the  Bloomingdale  Asylum,  President  of  the  Bank  for  Savings 
and  the  Clinton  Hall  Association,  a  trusted  officer  of  many  other  institutions, 
he  was  closely  identified  with  the  leading  interests  of  the  city.  His  diary 
extends  from  1828  to  1845.  The  political  life  of  these  years  is  commented 
upon  by  one  who  was  familiar  with  its  inner  workings.  Daniel  Webster, 
Martin  Van  Buren,  with  a  score  of  their  prominent  contemporaries,  are 
familiarly  described  and  conversations  with  them  recorded.  A  graphic  de 
scription  is  given  of  the  famous  Tippecanoe  election,  in  which  Hons  took  an 
active  part  on  the  side  of  Harrison. 


CATALOGUE  OF  PUBLICATIONS.  31 

But  probably  the  portion  of  this  Diary  which  will  be  most  eagerly  read 
is  that  relating  to  the  social  life  of  New  York.  Hone  was  above  all  a  man 
of  the  world  and  of  pleasure,  a  bon-vivant  and  diner-out.  He  keeps  a  con 
stant  record  of  the  dramatic  amusements  of  the  town  when  James  Wallack 
acted  and  Fanny  Ellsler  danced.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  writing  down  the 
names  of  the  guests  at  his  own  dinner-table  and  of  those  whom  he  met  at 
other  people's. 

The  Knickerbocker  of  to-day  will  learn  what  company  was  present  at  his 
father's  wedding,  where  his  grandfather  most  frequently  dined,  and  what 
people  thought  about  him.  The  tone  of  the  diary  is  always  pleasant,  the 
expression  amusing  and  sometimes  witty.  Old  New  York,  when  the 
fashionable  world  lived  in  St.  John's  Park  and  Broadway,  when  Washington 
Square  was  a  vacant  lot,  when  Wm.  B.  Astor  was  young  and  the  venerable 
John  Jay  yet  alive,  passes  before  us  in  these  pages.  The  student  of  the 
history  of  New  York  will  find  Hone's  diary  a  mine  of  information;  the  gos 
sips  of  to-day  will  pause  to  enjoy  the  forgotten  small  talk  of  their  grand 
mothers. 

HOOD  (Rev.  E.  PAXTON). 

LAMPS,  PITCHERS,  AND  TRUMPETS.  Lectures 
on  the  Vocations  of  the  Preacher.  Illustrated  by 
Anecdotes,  Biographical,  Historical,  and  Lucidatory, 
of  every  order  of  Pulpit  Eloquence,  from  the  great 
Preachers  of  all  ages.  Two  vols.,  i2mo,  cloth, 
$2.00. 
HOOD  (THOMAS). 

POETICAL  WORKS.  With  a  Memoir  by  Richard 
Monckton  Milnes.  3  vols.,  i2mo,  full  gilt  elegant, 
cloth,  $4.50. 

HOWSON  (J.  S.,  D.D.). 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  ST.  PAUL.     i2mo,  cloth. 

"  A  more  eloquent  tribute  to  the  character  of  the  great  apostle,  andone 
so  well  adapted  to  the  student  and  the  general  reader  alike,  could  not  be  de 
sired.  Theological  students  cannot  afford  to  lose  the  advantages  which  a 
careful  study  of  this  book  will  afford;  and  those  who  do  not  care  for  theol 
ogy,  or  perhaps  for  religion  even,  if  they  read  a  few  pages  will  be  strongly 
induced  to  read  all." — N.  Y.  Times. 


4  2  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

INTERNATIONAL  CYCLOPEDIA. 

FIFTEEN  LARGE  ROYAL  OCTAVO  VOLUMES. 
NEW  EDITION  OF  1889.  Containing  over  13,000 
pages,  with  100  fine  double-page  maps,  latest  statis 
tics,  and  interesting  information,  embracing  the 
entire  circle  of  human  knowledge.  Sold  by  subscrip 
tion  only.  Full  particulars  on  application  to  our 
Subscription  Department. 

The  "  International  Cyclopedia"  has  been  aptly  called  the"  busy  man's 
library  of  ready  reference,"  it  is  so  full,  complete,  comprehensive,  concise, 
and  always  reliable. 

To  the  professor  or  student,  merchant  or  mechanic,  home  or  school,  it 
is  alike  adapted,  and  meets  every  demand  made  upon  it. 

Says  an  eminent  well  known  author:  "  Every  household  will  be  the 
wiser  and  better  for  its  possession." 

We  sell  it  for  cash,  or  on  our  easy-payment  plan,  which  has  been  re 
ceived  with  marked  favor,  delivering  the  entire  15  vols.  at  once.  By  the 
latter  plan  the  purchaser  enjoys  the  unrestricted  use  of  the  Cyclopedia 
while  paying  for  it. 

That  subscribers  to  the  "  International  Cyclopedia"  are  enthusiastic  in 
their  expressions  of  satisfaction  and  confidence  in  the  work  is  evident  from 
the  following  testimonials  gathered  from  a  large  daily  correspondence: 

Rev.  Howard  Crosby,  New  York:  "I  find  it  exactly  the  book  of  reference  bes!. 
suited  to  family  use." 

Geo.  Makepeace  Towle,  Boston,  Mass.:  "  Especially  adapted  to  the  wants  of  the 
masses  of  the  people." 

James  Freeman  Clarke,  D.D.,  Boston  :  "  I  possess  several,  and  think  this  equal  \.e. 
any." 

Edward  Everett  Hale,  Boston:  "Have  tested  it  in  many  ways,  and  found  it  re 
markably  accurate.'1 

Rev.  Leonard  Woolsey  Bacon,  Georgia  :  "  The  International  gives  more  informa 
tion  than  any  other." 

Rev.  P.  M.Donohoe,  Charleston,  111.:  "Where  Catholic  countries  are  spoken  of, 
it  seems  to  have  entered  the  domain  of  absolute  fairness." 

Rev.  Robert  Collyer,  New  York:  "I  have  gone  through  it  with  care,  and  can 
recommend  it  heartily." 

J.  L.  Hurlburt,  D.D.,  Prin.  C.  L.  S.  C.:  "  Constantly  in  use  in  the  office  of  the 
C.  L.  S.  C." 

Chicago  Board  of  Education,  Feb.,  1888:  "Officially  adopted  for  use  in  all  the 
schools  of  this  city." 

W.  H.  Lambert,  Princ.  Durfee  High  School,  Fall  River,  Mass.:  "  I  do  not  know 
of  a  better  Cyclopedia  for  ready  reference." 

Rev.  Robert  F.  Gordon,  Wayland,  Mass.:  "Each  volume  shows  scholarly  exact 
ness  and  wide  research." 

Wm.  H.  Beach,  Supt.  Public  Schools,  Madison,  Wis.:  "  Do  not  know  of  any  other 
work  that  contains  so  much  infoimation  on  so  many  subjects,  and  at  so  low  a  pric?.'' 


CATALOGUE  OF  PUBLICATIONS.  33 

JACKSON  (SHELDON,  D.D.). 

ALASKA,  AND  MISSIONS  ON  THE  NORTH  PA- 
CIFIC  COAST.  Illustrated.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  volume  gives  interesting  and  valuable  information  in  regard  to 
the  physical  features  of  the  country,  population,  customs,  and  beliefs  of  its 
people,  etc.  The  illustrations  add  much  to  the  value  of  the  book." — Jour 
nal  of  Education. 

JAMES  (F.  L.,  F.R.G.S.). 

THE  WILD  TRIBES  OF  THE  SOUDAN.  An  ac 
count  of  travel  and  sport  chiefly  in  the  Base*  Country  ; 
being  personal  experiences  and  adventures  during 
three  winters  spent  in  the  Soudan.  8vo,  with  3 
maps  and  40  full-page  illustrations,  engraved  for  the 
book  from  photographs  taken  on  the  spot.  Hand 
somely  printed  and  bound,  cloth,  $2.25. 

"  The  country  traversed  was  that  now  occupied  by  El  Mahdi,  the  False 
Prophet,  the  real  starting-point  being  that  Suakin  of  which  we  now  daily 
read  so  much.  Mr.  James  writes  in  a  manly,  straightforward  style.  He 
has  much  of  interest  to  relate,  and  he  tells  his  story  in  a  fresh  and  invigor 
ating  manner." — Good  Literature. 

JAMES  (Rev.  WILLIAM). 

GRACE  FOR  GRACE.  The  Letters  of  the  Rev.  Will 
iam  James  on  the  Higher  Christian  Life.  i2mo, 
cloth,  $1.25. 

"  This  book  is  composed  of  letters  the  theme  of  which  is  the  life  of  God 
in  the  soul,  as  it  is  imparted,  nourished,  strengthened,  and  perfected  by  His 
abounding  grace.  They  treat  of  the  most  intricate  and  vital  relations  of 
the  believer  with  Christ;  of  the  Redeemer  into  the  heart  by  a  simple  and 
appropriating  faith  ;  of  His  sufficiency  and  power,  when  thus  received, 
to  free  the  soul  from  the  sense  of  condemnation  and  from  the  intolera 
ble  and  hopeless  struggle  for  self-deliverance,  and  to  establish  it  in  peace, 
joy,  and  victory  of  an  assured  and  realized  salvation." — Christian  States- 


34  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

JAY  (WILLIAM,  D.D.). 

PRAYERS  FOR  THE  USE  OF  FAMILIES.  By  the 
author  of  "  Morning  and  Evening  Exercises,"  etc. 
i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

JESSUP  (HENRY  H.,  D.D.),  Missionary  in  Syria. 

WOMEN  OF  THE  ARABS.     15  full-page  illustrations. 

I2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 
SYRIAN  HOME-LIFE.     Illustrated.     i6mo,   cloth,   go 

cents. 

JOHNSON  (ROSSITEB). 

THE    WAR    OF     1812    BETWEEN    THE    UNITED 

STATES  AND  GREAT  BRITAIN. 
THE  OLD  FRENCH  WAR. 
Each  i  vol.,  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

See  "  Minor  Wars." 

KEATS  (JOHN). 

THE  LETTERS  AND  POEMS  OF  JOHN  KEATS, 
reprinted  from  the  edition  edited  by  Lord  Hough  ton, 
with  memoir  by  John  Gilmer  Speed ;  and  Letters, 
many  of  which  have  never  before  been  published. 
With  illustrations.  3  vols.,  post  8vo.  Printed  from 
type,  by  De  Vinne.  Only  350  copies  printed,  each 
copy  numbered  and  signed,  as  follows  :  4  copies  on 
vellum ;  12  copies  on  China  paper ;  55  copies  on 
Whatman  paper ;  275  copies  on  Holland  paper. 
A  few  of  the  Holland  copies  may  be  had  at  $15.00.* 

"  The  work  is  in  three  volumes,  of  which  one  is  devoted  to  the  letters 
and  two  to  the  poems.  The  volume  of  letters  has  been  prepared  by  the 
grandnephew  of  the  poet,  John  Gilmer  Speed,  Esq.,  and  contains,  in  addi 
tion  to  those  hitherto  published,  a  number  written  by  Keats  to  his  brother 


CATALOG UE  OF  P UBLICA TIONS.  35 

George,  in  the  United  States.  These  were,  to  a  considerable  extent,  memo 
randa  of  his  daily  doings,  jotted  down  from  time  to  time,  so  as  to  be  ready 
for  any  chance  vessel  that  might  be  sailing,  and  are  full  of  most  interesting 
references  to  his  friends  as  well  as  expressions  of  his  own  feelings  and  aims, 
such  as  would  only  be  made  to  those  most  closely  related  to  him.  None  of 
these  American  letters  have  ever  been  published  complete  and  unaltered, 
and  many  of  them  now  appear  in  print  for  the  first  time.  An  introduction 
to  the  poems  has  also  been  written  by  Mr.  Speed.  The  text  of  the  poems  is 
that  prepared  by  Lord  Houghton,  whose  notes  have  been  retained.  The 
volumes  contain  portraits  of  the  three  brothers,  John,  George,  and  Tom, 
reproduced  in  color  from  the  originals  in  oil  by  Severn.  In  addition  to  the 
three  portraits  mentioned,  there  is  an  etching  of  the  poet's  grave,  by  Sabin; 
a  fac-simile  of  the  original  draft  of  one  of  the  author's  smaller  poems,  show 
ing  his  erasures  and  emendations  ;  the  silhouette  of  Fanny  Brawne,  the  head 
of  Keats  drawn  by  Severn  in  his  last  illness,  the  drawing  from  life  by  Severn, 
and  a  reproduction  of  the  life  mask  by  Hayden." — Critic. 

THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  JOHN  KEATS.  Ed 
ited  by  William  T.  Arnold.  2  vols.,  i2mo,  with 
portraits,  beautifully  bound  in  cloth  gilt,  elegant, 
$3.00. 

KINDERSLEY  (EDWARD  COCKBURN). 

THE  VERY  JOYOUS,  PLEASANT,  AND  REFRESH 
ING  HISTORY  OF  THE  FEATS,  EXPLOITS, 
TRIUMPHS,  AND  ACHIEVEMENTS  OF  THE 
GOOD  KNIGHT,  WITHOUT  FEAR  AND  WITH 
OUT  REPROACH,  THE  GENTLE  LORD  DE 
BAYARD.  Set  forth  in  English  by  Edward  Cock- 
burn  Kindersley.  With  many  illustrations.  4to, 
$2.50. 
See  "  Heroes  of  Chivalry." 

"  No  book  that  has  been  published  so  far  this  year  begins  to  approach 
this  delectable  history  in  romantic  interest.  ...  A  book  which  all 
manly  boys  will  be  delighted  with,  and  to  which  they  will  return  again  and 
again." — Mail. 

"  No  handsomer  book  for  boys  has  been  brought  out  this  season."— 
Christian  Union. 


36  DODD,  MEAD  &>  COMPANY'S 

KINGSLEY  (HENRY). 

AUSTIN  ELLIOTT.     A  Novel.     121110,  cloth,  $1.00. 
LEIGHTON  COURT.    A  Novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
RAVENSHOE.     A  Novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
THE  RECOLLECTIONS   OF   GEOFFRY   HAMLYN. 

A  Novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.      A  Novel. 

i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

LADD  (HORATIO  O.). 

HISTORY  OF  THE  WAR   WITH  MEXICO.      i2mo, 
cloth,  $1.25. 

See  "  Minor  Wars." 

LAND  AND  SEA  LIBRARY. 

Original  vols.,  profusely  illustrated.     i6mo,  cloth,  $2.50. 

THE  OCEAN.  THE   FROZEN    NORTH. 

THE   BUILDERS   OF  THE          ANCIENT  EGYPT. 
SEA.  INDIA. 

LEE,  EDMUND. 

DOROTHY  WORDSWORTH.     A  Story  of  a  Sister's 
Love.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

A  writer  in  Blackwooifs  has  described  the  relation  of  the  sister  to  the 
brother  in  the  very  expressive  terms  :  "  It  was  not  that  she  visibly  or  con 
sciously  aided  or  stimulated  him,  but  that  she  was  him — a  second  pair  of 
eyes  to  see,  a  second  and  more  delicate  intuition  to  discern,  a  second  heart 
to  enter  into  all  that  came  before  their  mutual  observation.  This  union 
was  so  close  that  it  becomes  difficult  to  discern  which  is  the  brother  and 
which  is  the  sister.  She  was  part  not  only  of  his  life,  but  of  his  imagi 
nation." 

LORING  (W.  W.). 

A  CONFEDERATE  SOLDIER  IN  EGYPT.      By    W. 
W.    Loring,    late     Colonel     in     the   U.     S.    Army, 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  37 

Major-General  in  the  Confederate  Service,  and 
Fereek  Pasha  and  General  in  the  Army  of  the 
Khedive  of  Egypt,  i  vol.,  8vo,  cloth,  with  47  il 
lustrations,  $3.50. 

"  The  true  reflection  of  a  wide-awake  man's  impressions,  sentiments,  and 
prejudices,  and  eminently  readable." — Nation. 

LtiBKE  (WILHELM). 

OUTLINES  OF  THE   HISTORY   OF  ART.     A    new 

translation  from  the  Seventh  German  Edition.  Ed 
ited  with  Notes  by  Clarence  Cook,  in  2  vols.,  royal 
8vo,  with  nearly  600  illustrations.  Cloth,  gilt  top, 
$14.00  ;  half  morocco,  $19.00  ;  half  levant,  $22.50  ; 
Student's  Edition,  complete.  Two  vols.,  8vo,  half  roan, 
$7.50  ;  half  morocco,  $12.50. 

"  In  the  new  interest  in  art,  awakened  in  this  country,  these  volumes 
ought  to  be  the  primer  of  our  artists  and  art  admirers.  There  is  no  other 
work  of  equal  value  accessible  to  the  reader,  and  the  numerous  illustrations 
make  it  easy  to  grasp  the  principles,  and  follow  the  development  of  the 
branches  of  art,  architecture,  sculpture,  and  painting." — New  York  Inde 
pendent. 

"  The  great  success  of  his  book  in  Europe  is  partly  due  to  the  fact  that 
it  is  the  only  one  of  its  kind  from  which  those  who  aim  at  general  culture 
can  obtain  a  sufficient  idea  of  one  of  the  broadest  fields  of  human  activity, 
concerning  which  every  one  nowadays  is  expected  to  know  something." — 
Charles  C.  Perkins. 

"An  accepted  standard  of  information,  .  .  .  astonishingly  full, 
without  reaching  proportions  which  might  make  it  generally  impractical  ; 
scrupulously  exact,  and  illustrated  with  a  rare  instinct  of  selection." — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

"  It  has  the  great  merit  of  freedom  from  bias  and  sentimentalism,  and 
forms  a  welcome  contrast  to  the  uncritical  and  half-digested  books  upon  art 
which  are  daily  issued  from  English  and  American  presses." — Literary 
World. 

"A  vast  area  has  been  traversed,  yet  no  part  of  the  ground  has  been 
neglected  or  carelessly  scanned.  The  survey  has  been  comprehensive,  but 
the  impressions  gained  and  the  judgments  expressed  have  been  clear  and 
competent. " — Chicago  Tribune. 


38  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

LUCY  (II.  W.). 

GIDEON  FLEYCE.     A  Novel.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

MABEIILY  (J.). 

THE  PRINT  COLLECTOR.  An  introduction  to  the 
knowledge  of  Ancient  Prints,  with  suggestions  as  to 
the  mode  of  collecting.  Edited  with  an  introduc 
tion  and  notes  by  Robert  Hoe,  Jr.  i  vol.,  large 
8vo,  with  illustrations,  cloth,  $2.50. 

"  The  book  commends  itself  alone  without  comment  to  all  collectors 
and  lovers  of  prints,  and  it  is  so  wholly  without  rivals  in  its  comprehensive 
ness  and  accuracy  that  its  publication  makes  it  at  once  a  necessary  part  oi 
every  collector's  library,  while  as  a  history  of  engraving  and  kindred  arts  it 
is  invaluable  to  all  classes  of  intelligent  readers." — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

MAINSTONE'S  HOUSEKEEPER. 

A  Novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

MANNING  (ANNE). 

MAIDEN  AND  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  MARY  POW 
ELL.  i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

CHERRY  AND  VIOLET.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

THE  HOUSEHOLD  OF  SIR  THOMAS  MORE.  i6mo, 
cloth,  $1.00. 

THE  FAIRE  GOSPELLER,  ANNE  ASKEW.  i6mo, 
cloth,  $1.00. 

JACQUES  BONNEVAL  :  A  Tale  of  the  Huguenots. 
i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

THE  SPANISH  BARBER  :  A  Tale  of  the  Bible  in 
Spain.  i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  39 

MARKHAM  (RICHARD). 

COLONIAL  DAYS.  Being  Stories  and  Ballads  for 
young  Americans  as  recounted  by  five  boys  and  five 
girls  in  "  Around  the  Yule  Log,"  "  Aboard  the 
Mavis,"  and  "  On  the  edge  of  Winter."  Quarto, 
with  nearly  250  illustrations,  handsomely  bound, 
cloth,  $2.50. 

"  The  design  and  execution  of  this  work  are  admirable.  It  is  entertain 
ing,  instructive,  well  written,  and  well  printed.  In  all  respects  the  book  is  a 
positive  success." — Chicago  Appeal. 

"  Mr.  Markham  has  produced  a  capital,  entertaining  book  for  young 
readers,  and  carried  out  cleverly  a  clever  idea." — Evening  Mail,  New  York. 
"  A  merry  set  of  boys  and  girls  incur  adventures  by  sea  and  land,  listen 
to  Revolutionary  and  other  historical  tales,  and,  what  is  the  crowning  merit 
of  Mr.  Markham,  behave  and  talk  with  great  naturalness  and  vivacity." — 
Nation. 

HISTORY  OF   KING  PHILIP'S    WAR.     i2mo,    cloth, 
$1.25. 
See  "  Minor  Wars." 

CHRONICLE     OF    THE    CID.      Edited    by    Richard 

Markham.     4to,  cloth,  illustrated. 

See  "  Heroes  of  Chivalry." 

"  Mr.  Markham  has  availed  himself  with  admirable  judgment  of  the  va 
rious  chronicles  of  the  Cid,  and  has  produced  a  book  of  rare  value,  surpass 
ing  in  interest  the  wildest  romance." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

MARRIAGE  CERTIFICATES. 

Printed  from  a  beautiful  and  chaste  steel-engraving. 
On  plate  paper,  per  dozen,  $1.00.  On  bank-note 
paper,  per  dozen,  $1.00. 

McCOAN  (J.  C.). 
EGYPT  AS  IT  IS.     A  hew  edition,  8vo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

See  "  Histories  of  the  Old  World." 

"The  History  of  Egypt,"  by  J.  C.  McCoan,  should  properly  be  called 
"  A  History  of  Egypt  in  Recent  Times,"  especially  from  1840  to  1880,  as  it 


40  DODD,  MEAD  &•  COMPANY'S 

McCOAN  (J.  C.)«— CONTINUED. 

deals  largely  in  all  the  important  efforts  made  by  the  Khedives  Mehemet  Ali 
Said  Pasha,  and  Ismail  in  their  efforts  to  become  independent  of  Turkey, 
and  to  make  Egypt  a  prosperous  and  powerful  kingdom.  It  is  a  very  able 
and  complete  account  of  the  financial  condition  of  Egypt  ;  of  the  occur 
rences  and  decrees  that  made  France  and  England  the  directors  of  the  gov 
ernment  for  some  years  ;  a  full  statement  of  the  relations  of  Egypt  to  the 
Porte  ;  the  administration  of  the  government  ;  an  account  of  the  Suez 
Canal,  etc.  The  reading  of  it  will  give  one  a  much  better  idea  of  the  news 
we  are  daily  receiving  from  Egypt  and  the  Soudan. 

MCDONALD  (GEORGE). 

A  DOUBLE  STORY.      i6mo,  cloth. 

"  Tells  of  two  little  girls,  one  the  child  of  a  king,  the  other  of  a  shep 
herd,  both  spoiled  by  their  indulgent  parents,  and  both  taken  from  their 
homes  by  the  Wise  Woman,  to  be  led,  if  possible,  to  see  themselves  as  they 
were  seen  by  others,  and  induced  to  abandon  their  selfishness  and  ill-nature 
for  a  better  and  happier  way  of  life." — Boston  Transcript, 

McLAIN  (MARY  W.). 

DAISY  WARD'S  WORK.     i6mo,  illustrated. 

McLEOD  (NORMAN,  D.D.). 

THE    STARLING.       A    Scotch    Story.       i2mo,   cloth, 

$1.00. 
CHARACTER   SKETCHES.      Including  "We  Davie," 

"Billy  Buttons,"  etc.,  etc.     i2mo,  cloth. 

MEADE  (L.  T.). 

HOW     IT     ALL     CAME     AROUND.      I2mo,     cloth, 
$1.00. 

ME  YE  (HENRY). 

STONE    SCULPTURES    OF    COPAN    AND    QUIRI- 
GUA.     With  descriptive  text  by  Dr.  Julius  Schmidt. 
With  20  plates.     Folio,  half  morocco,  $20.00. 
The  sculptured  monoliths  of  Copan  and  Quirigud,  reproduced  in  the 


CA  TALOG  UE  OF  P  UBLICA  TIONS.  4 1 

plates,  rank  indisputably  with  the  most  interesting  and  noteworthy  monu 
ments  of  tropical  America,  They  clearly  betray  the  end  for  which  they 
were  produced — to  display,  embodied  in  stone,  to  the  population  settled  in 
these  regions,  and  to  hand  down  to  after-generations  the  religious  ideas  and 
traditions  which  reigned  in  the  spiritual  life  of  these  people.  The  number 
of  places  in  Central  America  which  at  the  present  day  attract  attention  by 
the  presence  of  these  monolith  statues  is  by  no  means  large — that  is,  if  we 
look  for  an  assemblage  of  many  such  statues  on  one  spot.  In  most  of  the 
better  known  collections  of  ruins,  the  statues  occur  singly,  or  else,  as  in  the 
case  of  Santa  Lucia  Cosumalhualpa,  the  sculptured  figures  are  represented 
exclusively  by  reliefs. 

MIMPRISS    (ROBERT). 

THE  GOSPELS  IN  HARMONY.  Having  the  texts 
of  the  Four  Evangelists  in  parallel  columns,  with 
notes,  references,  and  charts.  Pocket  edition,  small 
type,  paper,  60  cents. 

i6mo  edition,  large  type,  cloth,  $1.25. 

MINOR  WARS  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

A  Series  of  Popular  Histories,  uniform  with  the  Pioneer 
and  Patriot  and  American  Indian  Series.  Each  i 
vol.,  i2mo,  fully  illustrated  and  attractively  bound 
in  cloth.  Per  vol.,  $1.25. 

1.  THE  WAR  OF  1812.     By  ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 

2.  THE  OLD   FRENCH  WAR.     By  ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 

3.  THE  WAR   WITH    MEXICO.     By  H.  O.  LADD. 

4.  KING   PHILIP'S  WAR.     By  RICHARD  MARKHAM. 

"  Johnson's  '  War  of  1812  '  gives  a  clear,  succinct,  and  trustworthy  ac 
count  of  the  war,  and  ought  to  be  widely  circulated  and  generally  read." — 
Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Markham's  '  King  Philip's  War'  is  a"plain,  unvarnished  tale,  a  colla 
tion  of  established  facts  put  in  a  very  earnest,  straightforward  manner.  The 
early  chroniclers  have  been  freely  drawn  upon  by  the  author,  and  the  book 
is  a  very  compact,  comprehensive,  and  reliable  history  of  some  of  the  most 
stirring  times  in  our  New  England  life." — Boston  Post. 


42  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

MINOR  WARS  OF  THE  U.   S.— CONTINUED. 

"  Johnson's  '  Old  French  War '  gives  the  story  in  a  plain,  lively  manner 
sure  to  hold  the  interest  of  the  reader  and  to  leave  a  vivid  impression  of  the 
stirring  and  thrilling  events  upon  his  mind." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  Mr.  Ladd's  '  War  with  Mexico'  deals  with  the  subject  in  the  clearest 
and  most  satisfactory  way  we  have  ever  seen  it  treated." — Saturday  Evening 
Post. 

MITCHELL  (LUCY  M.). 

A  HISTORY  OF  ANCIENT  SCULPTURE.  Imperial 
8vo.  With  295  wood-engravings  in  the  text  by 
some  of  the  most  skilled  artists  of  this  country  and 
Europe,  and  6  full-page  photogravures  prepared  by 
Frisch,  of  Berlin.  Elegantly  printed,  bound  in  cloth, 
gilt  tops,  $12.50 ;  half  morocco,  $18.00  ;  full  morocco, 
$20.00. 

Student's  Edition.  Printed  from  the  same  plates  with 
all  the  wood-engravings.  2  vols.,  half  roan,  $7.50; 
half  morocco,  $12.50. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  ANCIENT  SCULPTURE.  20 
heliotype  plates,  printed  in  Berlin  in  the  highest 
style  of  the  art  from  original  negatives  taken  ex 
pressly  for  Mrs.  Mitchell,  and  intended  to  accom 
pany  her  book.  With  descriptive  text.  In  port 
folio.  Folio,  $4.00.* 

"  Our  author  has  brought  to  her  stately  task  a  thorough  understanding 
of  her  subject,  an  exquisite  modesty,  and  long  years  of  thoughtful  travel  in 
lands  where  art  was  cradled  and  where  its  greatest  glories  were  achieved." 
— Chicago  Tribune. 

"  One  of  the  most  valuable  contributions  so  far  made  to  the  history  of 
art.  Mrs.  Mitchell  treats  of  the  productions  of  the  sculptor's  chisel  in  con 
nection  with  all  the  different  phases  of  life  —  religious,  political,  social,  and 
aesthetic  —  to  whose  service  they  were  devoted.  Much  light  is  thrown  upon 
ancient  art  by  a  study  of  the  institutions  and  history  of  the  ancient  peoples, 


CATALOGUE   OF  P  UBL ICA  T10NS,  4  j 

and  conversely,  the  study  of  all  art-products  enables  us  to  reach  a  bettei 
understanding  of  the  life  and  times  of  the  people  among  whom  they  origi 
nated.  The  work  will  at  once  be  accorded  a  place  among  the  classics  in  an 
literature."— N.  Y.  World. 

MOFFAT  (JAS.  C.,   D.D.),   Professor  of  Church 
History  in  Princeton  Theological  Seminary, 

A  COMPARATIVE  HISTORY  OF  RELIGIONS.  2 
vols.,  i2mo,  cloth.  Vol.  I.  Ancient  Scriptures 
Vol.  II.  Later  Scriptures.  A  new  edition,  thor 
oughly  revised  to  date.  2  vols.  in  one,  cloth,  $2.50. 

MOSBY  (JOHN  S.),  late  Colonel  of  the   Confed 
erate  States  of  America. 

MOSBY'S  WAR  REMINISCENCES.  8vo,  with  ic 
double-page  illustrations  by  W.  C.  Jackson.  $1.75, 

"  Those  who  like  stirring  events  will  find  them  in  Col.  Mosby's  book 
A  free  lance,  generally  in  luck,  he  delights  in  expatiating  on  the  raids  anc 
stratagems  which  made  his  partisan  warfare  famous.  His  exploits  read 
like  stories  of  the  Scottish  border  in  the  days  of  foray." — Literary  World 

MUNROE  (KIRK). 

THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  OF  '49.  A  Tale  of  the  Cali- 
fornia  Diggings.  By  Kirk  Munroe,  author  of  "  The 
Flamingo  Feather,"  "  Wakulla,"  "  Derrick  Sterling," 
With  10  full-page  illustrations  by  W.  C.  Jackson. 
8vo,  cloth,  $2.25. 

NEW  TESTAMENT. 

ist.  THE  REVISED  VERSION,  in  one  large  i2mc 
vol.,  well  printed  on  good  paper  and  substantially 
bound,  $1.00. 

The  Old  and  the  New  Versions  Compared. 


44  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

NEW  TESTAMENT.— CONTINUED. 

2d.  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT,  having  the  Old  and 
the  New  Versions  on  opposite  and  corresponding 
pages.  Large  i2mo,  1004  pages,  well  printed  and 
substantially  bound,  cloth,  $1.50. 

NIEBUHR  (BARTHOLD  GEORGE). 

GREEK  HERO  STORIES.  Translated  from  the  Ger 
man  of  Prof.  Niebuhr,  author  of  "  History  of  Rome," 
by  Benjamin  Hoppin.  With  12  full-page  illustra- 
trations  by  Augustus  Hoppin.  i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

NORDHOFF  (CHARLES). 

MAN-OF-WAR  LIFE.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
THE  MERCHANT  VESSEL.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
WHALING  AND  FISHING.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

SAILOR  LIFE  ON  MAN-OF-WAR  AND  MER 
CHANT  VESSEL.  This  volume  consists  of 
"  Man-of-War  Life  "  and  "  Merchant  Vessel." 
Several  hundred  illustrations.  4to,  cloth,  $2.50. 

"  There  is  not  a  boy  in  America,  whether  he  has  the  marine  fever  or 
not,  who  will  not  enjoy  it,  for  the  kind  of  literature  which  it  represents  is 
one  that  never  grows  old  nor  loses  its  charm." — Mail  and  Express, 

NORTHWEST  COAST  OF  AMERICA. 

BEING  RESULTS  OF  RECENT  ETHNOLOGICAL 
RESEARCHES  from  the  Collections  of  the  Royal 
Museum  at  Berlin.  Published  by  the  Directors  of 
the  Ethnological  Department.  Translated  from  the 
German.  With  13  plates,  5  of  which  are  in  colors. 
Folio,  half  morocco,  $20.00. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  45 

NOTT  (J.  FORTUNE). 

WILD  ANIMALS.  Illustrated  by  Pen  and  Camera. 
With  40  illustrations  from  nature  made  expressly 
for  the  work.  4to. 

"  Mr.  Nott  is  a  sincere  and  intelligent  lover  of  animals,  whose  principle 
it  is  to  consider  them  as  individuals  with  faculties  like  ours.  In  this  volume 
his  object  is  to  induce  his  readers  to  try  and  popularize  an  interest  in  wild 
animals  such  as  he  and  they  feel.  His  style  is  hardly  less  admirable  than 
his  purpose.  No  better  popular  descriptions  have  been  written  since  Gold 
smith  of  the  animals  of  which  he  treats." — Critic. 

OLIPHANT  (Mrs.). 

SIR  TOM.     A  Novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

ORMSBY   (JOHN). 

THE  INGENIOUS  GENTLEMAN  DON  QUIXOTE, 
OF  LA  MANCHA.  By  Miguel  De  Cervantes  Saa- 
vedra.  Translated  with  introduction  and  notes.  4 
vols.  50  copies  on  large  paper,  $25.00.* 

Library  Edition,  izmo,  cloth,  full  gilt  sides  and  back 
and  gilt  top,  $6.00. 

"  Mr.  Ormsby's  translation  is  of  the  first  order  for  ease  and  simplicity 
and  retains  the  flavor  of  the  original  to  a  surprising  degree;  his  scholarship 
is  a  guarantee  for  correctness.  He  has  not  modernized  the  language  and 
construction  as  little  as  he  has  sought  out  archaisms  of  language  in  the  en 
deavor  to  give  an  antique  flavor.  It  is  a  genuine  reproduction,  one  of  the 
most  successful  in  our  language,  of  a  masterpiece  of  foreign  literature." — 
Literary  World. 

OSBORNE  (DOROTHY). 

LETTERS    FROM    DOROTHY    OSBORNE    TO    SIR 
WM.  TEMPLE,  A.D.  1652-54.     Edited  by  Edward 
Abbott  Parry.     With  2    portraits.     8vo,  boards,  un 
cut,  with  label,  $1.75. 
"  Dorothy  Osborne  was  the  wife  of  that  famous  Sir  Wm.   Temple 


46  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

OSBORNE  (DOROTHY).— CONTINUED. 

whom  Macaulay  has  hung  in  his  striking  gallery  of  literary  portraits  side 
by  side  with  Milton  and  Addison;  and  these  are  her  lo-ve-letters  to  him — 
letters  that  are  quick  with  feeling,  full  of  wit  and  sportiveness,  abounding 
in  domestic  sketches  of  the  time  of  Charles  II.  and  Cromwell,  and  addressed 
to  one  of  the  most  celebrated  statesmen  writers  and  diplomats  of  his  time." 
— Critic, 

PARKER  (JANE  MARSH). 

THE  MIDNIGHT  CRY.     A  Novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

PATTISON  (Mrs.  MARK). 

THE  RENAISSANCE  OF  ART  IN  FRANCE.  With 
19  illustrations  on  steel.  2  vols.,  8vo,  $7.50. 

PEPYS  (SAMUEL). 

PEPYS'  DIARY.  The  Diary  and  Correspondence  of 
Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.,  F.R.S.,  from  the  cypher  in 
the  Pepysean  Library,  with  a  life  and  notes  by 
Richard  Lord  Braybrooke,  deciphered  with  addi 
tional  notes  by  Rev.  Mynors  Bright,  M.A.,  Pres 
ident  and  Senior  Fellow  of  Magdalen  College,  Cam 
bridge.  Library  Edition.  10  vols.,  i2mo.  Well 
printed  in  a  new  binding,  cloth,  full  gilt  sides  and 
back,  $15.00. 

"  It  is  the  book  of  books  to  dip  into  at  random,  to  rummage  for  things 
curious  and  entertaining,  to  ransack  for  the  light  it  throws  on  contemporary 
men,  manners,  morals,  and  society,  and  to  consult  for  the  valuable  histori 
cal  facts  it  discloses,  and  the  interesting  public  and  private  events  and  occur 
rences  it  describes.  A  wonderful  mosaic  of  things  great  and  small,  in 
church  and  state,  in  politics  and  affairs,  in  business  and  society,  in  the  world 
of  scandal  and  intrigue,  in  art,  science,  and  literature,  and  in  the  daily  and 
household  life  and  customs  of  artisans,  merchants,  gentry,  nobility,  and  even 
of  royalty  itself;  nowhere  else  can  be  found  so  complete  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  the  England,  or  rather  the  London,  of  the  last  days  of  the  Rump  and  the 
first  nine  years  of  the  Restoration  as  in  the  unique  diurnal  jottings  of  this 
prince  of  gossips  and  most  indefatigable  of  reporters." — Harper's  Magazine. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  47 

PERELAER  (M.  T.  H.). 

RAN  AWAY  FROM  THE  DUTCH  ;  or,  Borneo  from 
South  to  North.  Translated  from  the  Dutch  by 
Maurice  Blok,  and  adapted  by  A.  P.  Mendes.  With 
10  full-page  illustrations.  8vo,  $2.25. 

" '  Ran  Away  from  the  Dutch  '  tells  the  story  of  the  escape  of  four  desert 
ers  from  the  Dutch  East  India  service  and  of  their  pursuit.  It  is  an  uncom 
monly  exciting  book  of  adventure,  and  affords  an  edifying  insight  into  the 
manners,  customs,  scenery,  and  peculiarities  of  Borneo.  The  narrative  is 
unflagging  in  spirit,  and  the  incidents  with  which  it  deals  are  often  thrilling 
and  always  interesting." — Boston  Gazette. 

PHELPS  (ELIZABETH  STUART). 

GYPSY  BREYNTON. 
GYPSY'S   COUSIN   JOY. 
GYPSY'S   SOWING   AND    REAPING. 
GYPSY'S  YEAR   AT  THE   GOLDEN    CRESCENT. 
Comprising   the    Gypsy  Stories.     4  vols.,    i6mo,  cloth, 
each,  $1.00. 

RAINSFORD  (Rev.  W.  S.). 

Sermons  Preached  in  St.  George's.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 
"  The  sermons  contained  in  this  book  are  simple,  earnest  Christian  ad 
dresses  concerning  the  virtues,  their  nature  and  effect.     They  teach  the 
homely  practical  lessons  of  every-day  Christianity."— Detroit  Tribune. 

RAWLINSON  (Professor  GEORGE). 

FIVE  GREAT  MONARCHIES  OF  THE  ANCIENT 
EASTERN  WORLD.  Three  vols.,  8vo,  cloth,  gilt 
tops,  maps,  and  nearly  600  illustrations,  $9.00 ;  half 
morocco,  $16.00. 

THE  SIXTH  GREAT  MONARCHY  (PARTHIA).  I 
vol.,  8vo,  with  maps  and  illustrations,  cloth,  gilt 
tops,  $3.00  ;  half  morocco,  $5.00. 


RAWLINSON  (Professor  GEORGE).— CONTINUED. 

THE  SEVENTH  GREAT  MONARCHY  (The  Sassa- 
nean  or  New  Persian  Empire).  2  vols.,  with  maps 
and  illustrations,  cloth,  gilt  tops,  $6.00  ;  half  mo 
rocco,  $11.  oo. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  ANCIENT  EGYPT.  2  vols.,  8vo, 
with  numerous  illustrations,  cloth,  gilt  tops,  $6.00  ; 
half  morocco,  $11.00. 

STUDENT'S  EDITION  OF  RAWLINSON'S  WORKS. 
Printed  from  the  same  plates  as  the  fine  edition, 
but  on  thinner  paper  and  with  less  margin.  As 
follows  : 

The  Ancient  Monarchies.     6  vols.  in  5,  8vo,  $6.25. 

Ancient  Egypt.     2  vols.,  8vo,  $3.00. 

"  One  cannot  turn  to  the  pages  of  this  great  work  of  Rawlinson's  with 
out  ever-growing  wonder.  It  is  a  standing  monument  of  one  of  the  most 
marvellous  of  modern  achievements.  Almost  the  entire  contents  of  these 
large  and  well-filled  volumes,  replete  with  information  respecting  the  famous 
monarchies  of  ancient  Asia,  represent  a  positive  addition  to  historical 
knowledge  made  within  the  present  generation.  The  great  empires  of  the 
East  were  but  a  few  years  since  little  but  empty  names.  Some  vague  stories 
survived  of  the  magnificence  of  their  capitals  and  of  the  grandeur  and  ex 
ploits  of  a  few  kings,  and  the  rest  was  a  total  blank.  And  now  to  our 
amazement  we  behold  these  empires,  which  had  fallen  to  decay  one  after 
another,  before  the  father  of  history  began  his  gossiping  narrative,  rescued 
from  the  oblivion  of  ages,  and  we  are  set  face  to  face  with  the  long-buried 
forms  of  extinct  civilization." — Christian  Union. 

KEISS  (W.  and  STUBEL  A.). 

THE  NECROPOLIS  OF  ANCON  IN  PERU.     A  series 

of  illustrations  of  the  civilization  and  the  industries 
of  the  empire  of  the  Incas,  being  the  results  of 
excavations  made  on  the  spot ;  published  with 
the  aid  of  the  general  administration  of  the  Rcyal 


CATALOGUE   OF  P  UBLICA  T1ONS.  49 

Museums  of  Berlin.  Complete  in  14  parts,  folio, 
with  10  plates  in  each  part,  printed  in  colors.  Each 
part,  $7.50. 

"  This  work  is  monumental  in  character  and  its  value  to  the  archae 
ologist  will  be  of  the  highest.  We  have  never  seen  anything  finer  in 
chromo-lithography,  and  the  illustrations  have  all  the  appearance  of  being 
faithful  reproductions  of  the  originals." — London  Times. 

"  The  whole  work  promises  to  be  one  of  the  best  contributions  to  the 
ancient  history  of  the  human  race  that  has  yet  appeared.  It  is  a  fascinat 
ing  and  almost  an  untrodden  field  of  research." — Saturday  Review. 

"  This  magnificent  undertaking  bids  fair  to  rival  in  scientific  interest  and 
typographical  splendor  Lord  Kingsborough's  great  work  on  Mexican  An 
tiquities." — Nature. 

"  The  labors  of  Messrs.  Reiss  and  Stiibel  will  be  very  highly  appreciated 
by  students  of  American  archaeology,  who  will  be  duly  grateful  for  this 
beautiful  instalment  of  a  really  valuable  work." — Academy. 

"  The  plates  thus  far  issued  form  part  of  a  most  extensive  monograph, 
and  if  the  authors  carry  it  out  in  as  magnificent  a  style  as  it  has  been  begun 
we  shall  have  a  most  accurate  iconography  of  one  of  the  principal  types  of 
ancient  Peruvians,  as  represented  by  the  contents  of  one  of  their  most  noted 
burial-places." — 7 "he  Nation,  New  York. 

"  Jedenfalls  wird  man,  gestiitzt  auf  den  Inhalt  der  ersten  Lieferungen 
dieses  unvergleichlich  ausgestatteten  Werkes,  ersehen  von  welch  hervor- 
ragendem  Werthe  nach  den  verschiedensten  Gesichtspunkten  hin  die  Aus- 
grabungen  der  Herren  Reiss  und  Stiibel  sich  erweisen." — Die  Gegenwart, 
Berlin. 

REMBRANDT'S  ETCHINGS. 

Fifty  of  the  most  notable  etchings  of  Rembrandt,  re 
produced  in  Paris  by  the  photogravure  process  ; 
with  biography  of  Rembrandt,  and  descriptive  and 
historical  notes  to  each  plate,  by  Chas.  B.  Curtis, 
author  of  Velasquez  and  Murillo.  Folio,  vellum, 
with  elegant  design  in  gold,  $25.00.  Copies  with 
prints  on  Japan  paper,  $50.00. 

"  The  passion  for  his  etchings  is  not  simply  a  phase  of  the  love  of  col 
lecting,  like  the  gathering  of  postage-stamps  or  fans  or  china.  It  is  an 
instinct  prompted  by  a  love  for  pure  art.  No  test  of  one's  taste  and  higher 


5°  DODD,  MEAD  &•  COMPANY'S 

REMBRANDT'S  ETCHINGS.-CoNiiNUED. 

cultivation  is  more  sure  than  the  love  for  and  capacity  of  appreciat:,ig 
these  marvellous  works.  They  furnish  an  inexhaustible  source  of  refined 
pleasure.  Every  line  has  its  motive,  every  figure  its  purpose.  One  never 
tires  of  studying  them,  and  each  examination  develops  ne\\  beauties.  They 
range  in  character,  through  all  the  successive  gradations,  from  homely  to 
grand.  We  are  content  to  overlook  the  want  of  beauty  in  our  admiration 
for  the  masterly  fidelity  with  which  the  objects  are  presented  to  us.  We 
seek,  as  artists  have  for  ages  sought,  to  detect  and  expose  the  secret  of  the 
artist's  power,  but  we  are  in  the  end  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  no 
secret,  except  that  he  did  the  work  before  him  better  than  any  one  else 
could  do  it.  It  ,was  not  a  trick  of  the  hand  but  the  intelligence  of  the 
brain  that  served  him  so  well.  Doubtless  his  work  will  stand  pre-eminent 
until  some  new  artist  shall  rise  equally  keen  in  mind,  steady  of  eye,  supple 
of  hand,  and  zealous  in  purpose." — From  the  Author's  Preface, 

ROE  (MARY  A.). 

FORGING  THEIR  CHAINS.     A   Novel.     I2mo,  cloth, 

$1.00. 
A  LONG  SEARCH.     A  Novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

ROE  (Rev.  EDWARD  P.). 

BARRIERS  BURNED  AWAY.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

WHAT  CAN   SHE  DO?     lamo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

OPENING   A    CHESTNUT   BURR.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

NEAR  TO    NATURE'S   HEART.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

FROM  JEST  TO   EARNEST.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  KNIGHT   OF  THE  XIX.    CENTURY.     lamo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

A   FACE   ILLUMINED.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  DAY   OF  FATE.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

WITHOUT   A   HOME.     lamo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

HIS    SOMBRE    RIVALS.     i2mo,   cloth,  $1.50. 

A   YOUNG   GIRL'S   WOOING.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

AN  ORIGINAL  BELLE.     I2mo,   cloth,  $1.50. 

DRIVEN   BACK   TO    EDEN.     i2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  $i  50. 

NATURE'S   SERIAL   STORY.     I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  $1.50. 

HE  FELL  IN    LOVE  WITH    HIS  WIFE.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

THE   EARTH  TREMBLED.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

MISS  LOU.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

TAKEN   ALIVE,   AND  OTHER  STORIES.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  5 1 

THE   HOME   ACRE.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

SUCCESS   WITH   SMALL  FRUITS.     121110,  cloth,  $1.50.     Square 

8vo,  beautifully  illustrated,  $2.50. 
NATURE'S    SERIAL    STORY.     New    edition    from    the    original 

plates,    with    all  the    illustrations    by    Gibson,     Diehlman,    and 

others.     410,  cloth,    $2.50. 
BIRTHDAY   MOTTOES,   from  the   writings  of  E.  P.    Roe.     With 

portrait  and  illustrations.     i6mo,  cloth,   $1.00. 

WITHOUT  A  HOME. — "  The  ultimate  design  of  the  story  is  to  trace  the 
origin  and  growth,  and  exhibit  the  pernicious  results  of  the  morphia  habit. 
Mr.  Roe  has  graphically,  and  at  times  powerfully  and  dramatically,  por 
trayed  its  influence  to  wither  and  destroy  manhood  and  to  wreck  the  happi 
ness  of  the  family.  The  harrowing  incidents  which  are  the  consequence  of 
the  evil  are  not  so  ostentatiously  exhibited  as  to  be  revolting,  but  are  in 
geniously  distributed  over  a  story  that  has  a  substantial  and  independent 
interest  of  its  own." — Harper's  Magazine. 

NEAR  TO  NATURE'S  HEART. — "  His  heroine  is  a  pure  child  of  nature, 
with  a  limited  experience  of  life,  and  none  of  society  ;  but  her  artless 
character  combines  a  pleasure  of  noble  principle,  womanly  devotion,  and 
high-souled  conduct,  which  is  rarely  found  among  the  fruits  of  the  choicest 
culture." — New  York  Tribune. 

FROM  JEST  TO  EARNEST. — "His  plots  are  never  commonplace.  The 
change  in  Lottie's  character  is  well  delineated,  and  with  a  naturalness  and 
artistic  skill  which  we  do  not  often  find  in  the  so-called  religious  novels." — 
Harper's  Magazine, 

A  DAY  OF  FATE. — "  It  is  a  love  story,  pure  and  simple,  of  the  type  that 
belongs  to  no  age  or  clime  or  school,  because  it  is  the  story  of  the  love  that 
has  been  common  to  humanity,  wherever  it  has  been  lifted  above  the  level 
of  the  brutes." — New  York  Observer. 

BARRIERS  BURNED  AWAY. — "  We  accord  a  hearty  commendation  to  this 
work.  The  narrative  is  vigorous,  often  intense,  but  rarely  if  ever  melo 
dramatic.  Its  language  is  usually  no  less  chaste  than  forcible  and  impres 
sive.  It  betrays  a  power  of  invention  and  description  which  is  not  met 
with  every  day  in  the  best  of  writers  of  popular  fiction." — DR.  RIPLEY,  in 
the  New  York  Tribune. 

OPENING  A  CHESTNUT  BURR. — "  The  character  of  the  selfish,  morbid, 
cynical  hero,  and  his  gradual  transformation  under  the  influence  of  the 
sweet  and  high-spirited  heroine,  are  portrayed  with  a  masculine  firmness 
which  is  near  akin  to  power,  and  some  of  the  conversations  are  animated 
and  admirable." — Atlantic  Monthly. 

A  FACE  ILLUMINED. — "  The  author  does  not,  as  is  often  the  case,  make 
the  moral  design  an  excuse  for  literary  shortcomings.  His  characters  are 


52  DODD,  MEAD  &•  COMPANY'S 

ROE  (Rev.  EDWARD  P.).— CONTINUED. 

stamped  with  a  strong  individuality,  and  depicted  with  a  naturalness  that 
indicates  a  keen  student  of  human  nature  and  modern  life." — Boston  Trav 
eller. 

His  SOMBRE  RIVALS. — "  A  strong  story.  A  study  of  love  and  of  war  ; 
a  tale  of  army  service  during  the  Rebellion,  and  of  the  home  life  that  waited 
so  anxiously  on  it.  It  is  a  study,  too,  of  love  and  suffering,  and  an  argu 
ment  against  atheism,  but  not  a  controversial  one — the  story  itself  is  the 
argument." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

HE  FELL  IN  LOVE  WITH  His  WIFE. — "  The  more  I  think  over  the  book 
the  better  I  like  it  in  all  its  pans.  Upon  the  whole  I  think  that  Mr.  Roe 
has  written  the  best  American  novel  that  has  been  published  this  year." — 
Julian  Hawthorne  in  the  N.  Y.  World. 

NATURE'S  SERIAL  STORY. — "  Mr.  Roe  has  walked  with  us  through 
happy  valleys  where  peace  and  contentment  brood,  where  we  can  hear  the 
song  of  the  bird  and  the  merry  jest  of  the  reaper,  and  watch  the  alternate 
shadow  and  sunshine  that  dim  and  glorify  the  human  heart." — Philadelphia 
Record. 

"  The  chief  elements  of  Mr.  Roe's  popularity  as  a  novelist  are  a  very 
exact  understanding  of  the  habits  of  thought  of  the  great  majority,  sympa 
thy  with  the  ordinary  passions  and  sentiments,  respect  for  whatever  is  just 
and  decorous,  and,  lastly,  the  art  of  telling  a  simple  story  in  a  simple  and 
effective  manner." — New  York  Tribune. 

THE  EARTH  TREMBLED. — "  The  latest  novel  by  E.  P.  Roe,  who  is  the 
most  popular  American  novelist,  is  one  combining  all  his  best  character 
istics.  The  story  involves  much  of  the  war  period,  and  is  a  strong  and  fas 
cinating  love-story.  There  is  a  high  moral  tone  and  a  sympathetic  fervor  to 
Mr.  Roe's  writing  that  is  always  appreciated." — Boston  Evening  Traveller. 

DRIVEN  BACK  TO  EDEN. — "  E.  P.  Roe  is  perhaps  never  better  than 
when  describing  country  life,  for  which  he  has  a  genuine  enthusiasm  ;  and 
his  'Driven  Back  to  Eden'  is  perfectly  free  from  sensationalism.  The 
story  is  fully  illustrated,  and  contains  enough  adventure  to  easily  carry  off 
the  details  of  practical  life,  which  the  author  gives  with  an  air  of  authority 
that  can  only  arise  from  experience." — Boston  Courier. 

AN  ORIGINAL  BELLE. — "The  descriptions  of  battle  scenes  in  the  war 
and  the  lurid  picture  of  the  draft  riots  in  New  York  are  worth  reading. 
Nothing  that  Mr.  Roe  has  ever  written  is  so  vivid  and  dramatic  as  his  sketch 
of  the  three  terrible  days  in  New  York  when  the  mob  ruled  the  city,  sacked 
the  colored  orphan  asylum,  and  spread  dismay  in  a  thousand  homes.  It  has 
the  quality  of  history  also,  as  the  author  has  made  careful  research  and  em 
ploys  no  incidents  which  did  not  really  occur." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  53 

ROSSETTI  (DA>TE  GABRIEL). 

THE    BLESSED    DAMOZEL.      With   illustrations   by 
Kenyon  Cox.     Folio,  cloth,  $15. (X). 
See  Cox  (Kenyon). 

SAXD  (GEORGE). 

CONSUELO.  Translated  from  the  French  by  Frank 
H.  Potter,  Esq.  4  vols.,  i2mo,  beautifully  bound  in 
cloth  gilt,  with  gilt  top,  $6.00. 

"  How  we  love  Consuelo,  that  lofty  intelligence,  that  noble  heart, 
that  admirable  artist,  in  the  chastely  adventurous  outset,  at  Venice,  of  her 
wandering  life  ;  in  her  first  triumphs  and  her  first  sorrows  ;  in  her  arrival 
on  a  tempestuous  night  at  the  awful  castle  of  the  Giants  ;  throughout 
that  whole  phantasmagoria  of  ancient  ruins  and  of  great  caverns  ;  in  her 
love,  so  long  contending  with  terror,  for  the  young  Count  Albert;  in  her 
flight ;  in  her  chance  encounter  in  the  fields  with  Haydn,  then  hardly 
more  than  a  child  ;  in  fine,  in  that  long  journey  the  most  delightfully  fantas 
tic  that  the  imagination  can  conceive  !" — E.  Caro  of  the  French  Academy, 
Melville  £.  Anderson  s  translation. 

SCHAFF  (PHILIP,  D.D.)  and  ARTHUR  GIL3IAX. 

THE  LIBRARY  OF  SUNDAY  POETRY.  A  collection 
of  the  Best  Poems  of  All  Ages  and  Tongues,  with 
biographical  and  literary  notes  and  portraits.  8vo, 
1004  pages,  $3.50. 

"A  most  welcome  addition  to  the  poet's  library  is  this  new  and  revised 
edition  of  religious  poetry.  A  hoard  of  wealth  from  the  world  of  verse  is 
here  garnered  and  served  for  the  lover  of  such  feasts.  Poems  of  all  ages 
and  tongues,  with  biographical  and  literary  notes,  are  here  found,  and  they 
make  a  work  of  sterling  value.  Good  taste  and  sound  judgment  are  mani 
fest  on  every  page  of  this  collection.  The  editor's  work  is  thorough  and 
deserves  high  praise.  The  subjects  are  classified,  and  an  index  of  authors, 
with  their  works,  renders  the  volume  complete  and  convenient." — Christian 
Observer. 

SCOTT  (Sir  WALTER). 

POETICAL  WORKS.  3  vols.,  i2mo,  cloth  gilt  elegant, 
$4.50, 


54  DODD,  MEAD  &>  COMPANY'S 

SEELY  (HOWARD). 

A  RANCHMAN'S  STORIES.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

"These  phases  of  life  in  Texas,  at  the  ranch  and  on  the  round-up,  have 
all  the  vigor  of  truth,  the  sparkle  of  youth,  and  the  charm  of  novelty  to 
commend  them.  They  are  all  characterized  by  a  Western  flavor  and 
idiom  which  marks  them  as  unmistakably  genuine." — New  Haven  Palladium. 

SEELYE  (JULIUS  H.,  D.D.),  President  of  Am- 
herst  College. 

CHRISTIAN  MISSIONS.  Lectures  delivered  at  Yale 
Theological  Seminary.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Covering  the  whole  missionary  field  of  discussion,  the  wants  of  the 
unchristian  world,  the  failure  of  modern  civilization  to  improve  the  world, 
the  adequacy  of  the  Gospel,  the  error  of  the  millenarian  theory,  the  true 
method  of  missions,  motives  to  a  higher  consecration  to  missionary  work, 
and  the  resurrection  of  Christ  the  justification  of  missions." — Zion's  Herald. 

SHERIDAN  (RICHARD  BRINSLEY). 

THE  DRAMATIC  WORKS  OF.  A  new  edition  printed 
from  type,  and  limited  to  350  copies,  on  Japan  and 
Holland  paper.  3  vols.  Sets  on  Holland  paper, 
$15.00.*  A  few  sets  only  on  Holland  paper  can  be 
furnished. 

"  It  is  printed  from  type  by  the  house  of  De  Vinne  &  Co.,  which  is 
well  known  for  the  affectionate  care  bestowed  by  it  upon  the  finer  and  more 
costly  class  of  work,  and  the  impression  is  limited  to  thirty  copies  on  Japan 
paper  and  three  hundred  and  eighteen  on  Holland  paper.  It  may,  there 
fore,  be  called  an  edition  of  luxury,  and  indeed  by  the  beauty  of  the  page, 
the  perfection  of  the  presswork,  the  excellence  of  the  paper,  and  the  severe 
style  of  the  plain  binding,  it  is  entitled  to  the  respectful  consideration  of  the 
serious  collector.  Mr.  White  reviews  the  career  of  the  author  with  vivacity 
and  acuteness,  and  whatever  else  may  be  said  of  his  introduction  everybody 
will  call  it  interesting." — New  York  Tribune. 

SHELLEY  (PERCY  BYSSHE). 

POETICAL  WORKS.  3  vols.,  121110,  full  gilt  elegant, 
cloth,  $4.50. 


CATALOGUE   OF  PUBLICATIONS.  55 

SIMMONS  (CHARLES). 

THE  SCRIPTURE  MANUAL.  Alphabetically  and 
systematically  arranged.  Designed  to  facilitate  the 
finding  of  proof  texts.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.75. 

SIMMS  (WILLIAM  GILMORE). 

CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH.  A  Colonial  Romance. 
$1.00. 

STOCKTON  (FRANK  R.). 

WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  EXPECTED.  A  book 
for  young  people,  with  many  illustrations.  i2mo, 
cloth,  $1.50. 

STORRS  (RICHARD  S.,  D.D.). 

CONDITIONS  OF  SUCCESS  IN  PREACHING  WITH 
OUT  NOTES.  Three  lectures  delivered  before  the 
students  of  the  Union  Theological  Seminary,  New 
York.  lamo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  This  is  the  most  valuable  book  that  can  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  a 
young  man  entering  the  ministry.  In  the  first  lecture  the  author  gives  a 
very  interesting  account  of  his  own  experience  in  the  delivery  of  written 
and  unwritten  sermons.  In  the  second  he  points  out  the  specific  conditions 
of  success,  especially  those  that  are  physical  and  mental,  and  in  the  third 
lecture  those  that  are  moral  and  scriptural." — United  Brethren  Tribune. 

STOUGHTON  (JOHN,  D.D.). 

DAILY  PRAYER  BOOK.  For  the  use  of  families,  with 
additional  prayers  for  special  occasions.  Edited  by 
John  Stoughton,  D.D.  i2mo,  bevelled  boards,  red 
edges,  $1.50. 

STRETTON  (HESBA). 

BEDE'S   CHARITY,     izmo,  cloth,  $1.00. 


56  DODD,  MEAD  &•  COMPANY'S 

STRETTON  (HESBA).— CONTINUED. 

DAVID   LLOYD'S   LAST  WILL.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
HESTER    MORLEY'S   PROMISE.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
THROUGH   A   NEEDLE'S   EYE.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
IN    PRISON    AND   OUT.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
COBWEBS   AND   CABLES.     i2mo,  $1.00. 
CAROLA.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
THE   KING'S   SERVANTS.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

LOST    GIP    AND    MICHAEL    LORIO'S    CROSS.     :6mo,    cloth, 

$1.00. 

CASSY.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
MAX   KROMER.     A  Story  of  the  Siege  of  Strasburg.    i6mo,  cloth, 

75  cents. 

NELLY'S   DARK   DAYS.     i6mo,  cloth,  75  cents. 
HER  ONLY   SON.     i6mo,  cloth,  75  cents. 
THE    WONDERFUL    LIFE.     A    Life   of  Christ    for   Young   and 

Unlearned  Readers.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
BROUGHT   HOME.      A  powerful  Temperance  story.     i6mo,  cloth, 

$1.00. 
THE  CREW   OF  THE   DOLPHIN.     i6mo,  cloth.  $1.00. 

The  author  is  one  of  the  most  finished  of  contemporary  English  writers, 
and  brings  to  religious  fiction  a  literary  ability  which  would  win  a  genuine 
success  in  more  crowded  fields. 

"  A  book  really  great,  and  to  those  who  have  a  relish  for  truth  in  life 
and  art  '  Bede's  Charity'  will  be  exceptionally  welcome." — Evening  Mail. 

"  '  Hester  Morley's  Promise  '  is  the  history  of  a  young  girl's  life,  and 
a  promise  she  fulfilled  after  her  mother's  death.  It  is  one  of  the  freshest 
and  healthiest  stories  of  domestic  life  we  have  had  the  pleasure  of  reading 
for  a  long  time.  There  is  a  charming  pathos  pervading  the  volume,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  characters  are  natural,  easy  and  graceful,  and  the  book  is 
delightfully  entertaining." — Philadelphia  Item, 

"  Of  stories  with  a  purpose,  the  year  has  produced  none  written  with 
more  power  than  Hesba  Stretton's  '  In  Prison  and  Out.'  This  story  is,  per 
haps,  a  trifle  sombre,  but  in  its  pathetic  pages  there  are  pictures  of  prison- 
life  which  are  drawn  with  great  strength.  The  book  is  of  absorbing  inter 
est." — Evening  Mail. 

"  All  honor  to  any  writer  who  tries  to  raise  men  nearer  to  God,  who 
endeavors  to  help  men  to  resist  temptation  and  urge  them  to  feel  and  act 
kindly  toward  their  fellow-men.  Hesba  Stretton's  works  have  that  tenden 
cy.  We  have  read  many  of  her  stories,  and  testify  that  her  readers  cannot 
fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  beauty  of  purity  of  life,  and  with  the  duty  of 
practical  benevolence  as  incumbent  upon  Christians." — Jewish  Advocate. 


CA  TA  LOG  UE  OF  PUBL1CA  T1ONS.  5  7 

STRONG  (Hon.  WM.,    LL.D.),    Justice  Supreme 

Court  U.  S. 

THE  RELATIONS  OF  CIVIL  LAW  TO  ECCLESI 
ASTICAL  POLITY,  PROPERTY,  AND  DISCI 
PLINE.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

STUART  (ESME). 
THE  LITTLE  BROWN  GIRL.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

SUNLIGHT  THROUGH  THE  MIST. 

Lessons  from  the  Lives  of  Great  and  Good  Men.  i6mo, 
cloth. 

TALES  FROM  MANY  SOURCES. 

A  series  each  volume^of  which  consitss  of  seven  or  eight 
stories  by  the  best  modern  foreign  authors,  including 
Hardy,  Anstey,  Julian  Sturgis,  Stevenson,  Norris, 
Chas.  Reade,  Hesba  Stretton,  The  Duchess,  Short- 
house,  William  Black,  Besant  and  Rice,  Conan 
Doyle,  Wilkie  Collins,  Daudet,  James  Payne,  Mrs. 
Ewing,  Mrs.  Forrester,  Mary  Frances  Peard,  Hugh 
Conway,  J.  Stanley,  Grenville  Murray,  and  many 
others.  New  edition.  i6mo,  fancy  cloth,  6  vols., 
$3.00. 

TOWNER  (AUSBURN). 

AFTER  LONG  YEARS.  A  Story  of  the  Early  Days  of 
the  Republic.  lamo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

TUCKERMAN  (BAYARD). 

LIFE  OF  GENERAL  LAFAYETTE.  With  a  Critical 
Estimate  of  His  Character  and  Public  Acts.  By 
Bayard  Tuckerman.  2  volumes,  i2mo,  cloth,  with 


58  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

TUCKERMAN  (BAYARD).— CONTINUED. 

several  portraits,  $3.00 ;   50  copies  on  large  paper, 
$8.00. 

Until  the  publication  of  these  volumes  no  critical  estimate  of  Lafayette 
has  been  placed  before  the  public.  American  patriotism  and  gratitude  have 
obscured  his  conduct  and  character  by  indiscriminate  eulogy,  which,  in  its 
turn,  has  led  to  equally  unjust  depreciation.  In  England  and  France,  party 
spirit  has  alternately  exalted  and  condemned  a  career  which  was  involved 
in  so  many  burning  controversies. 

Another  obstacle  to  a  thorough  investigation  of  Lafayette's  character 
and  acts  has  been  the  laborious  research  required  by  an  examination  of  a 
public  life  which  extended  over  nearly  sixty  years,  and  included  three  great 
revolutions.  The  authorities  for  the  American  Revolution,  and  for  the 
crowded  French  period  of  history,  from  1789  to  1830,  are  also  the  authori 
ties  for  a  life  of  Lafayette.  The  General  himself  left  six  volumes  of  letters 
and  documents  regarding  his  course.  The  publications  issued  in  France 
alone  to  support  or  attack  him  number  nearly  three  hundred.  Many  inci 
dents  in  his  life  can  be  properly  examined  only  by  reference  to  unpublished 
letters  and  documents  which  are  scattered  through  the  collections  of  institu 
tions  and  individuals,  or  stored  in  the  archives  of  Paris  and  Washington. 

Mr.  Tuckerman,  who  has  made  a  special  study  of  this  historical  period, 
has  had  exceptional  advantages  in  his  investigation  of  Lafayette's  life.  He 
has  had  access  to  much  new  and  original  matter.  A  collection  of  contro 
versial  pamphlets  relating  to  the  General  have  been  at  his  disposal.  Through 
the  kindness  of  collectors  and  historical  societies  he  has  had  the  use  of  valu 
able  unpublished  letters.  The  results  of  these  are  to  be  seen,  for  instance, 
in  the  account  of  the  relations  of  Lafayette  to  Gouverneur  Morris. 

Both  volumes  contain  portraits  of  Lafayette  at  different  periods  of 
his  life. 

DIARY  OF  PHILIP  HONE.   Edited  by  Bayard  Tucker 
man.     See  Hone,   Philip. 

TYTLER  (C.  C.  ERASER). 

MARGARET.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Margaret  is  the  story  of  one  '  who  stood  and  waited.'  With  no  in 
tricacies  of  plot  nor  attempt  at  fine  writing,  it  charms  by  its  simplicity  and 
purity  of  style,  not  less  than  by  the  beauty  of  the  life  which  it  delineates."— 
Advance,  Chicago. 


CATALOGUE   OP   PUBLICATIONS.  59 

VAN  OOSTERZEE  (J.  J.,  D.D.). 

THE  THEOLOGY  OF  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT. 
A  Handbook  for  Bible  Students.  Translated  by 
Maurice  J.  Evans.  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

VINCENT  (MARVIN  R.,  D.D.). 

GOD  AND  BREAD,  WITH  OTHER  SERMONS. 
I2mo,  cloth,  $2.50. 

WADSWORTH   (WEDWORTH). 

IN  THE  WOODS  AND  FIELDS  WITH  TENNYSON. 

UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE  WITH  SHAKE 
SPEARE. 

Each  with  eighteen  illustrations  from  dainty  designs 
in  colors.  Neatly  boxed.  A  new  edition.  75 
cents. 

"  Two  beautiful  little  books.  The  illustrations  are  in  soft  browns  and 
olives  and  are  generally  of  landscapes  illustrating  bits  of  the  poems  which 
accompany.  They  are  printed  on  heavy  rough  paper  and  are  exceedingly 
attractive." — Chicago  Advance. 

WALTON  AND  COTTON'S  ANGLER. 

Bethune's  edition.  A  new  issue  of  this  beautiful  and 
valuable  edition,  with  all  the  original  plates.  In  two 
volumes,  small  8vo,  $3.50 ;  large-paper  edition,  100 
copies  printed,  $30.00. 

WEITBRECHT  (MARY). 

MIRACLES  OF  FAITH.  A  Sketch  of  the  Life  of  Beate 
Paulus.  With  an  Introduction  by  Charles  S.  Robin 
son,  D.D.  i8mo,  cloth,  75  cents. 


60  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY'S 

WELLINGTON  (DUKE  OF). 

LETTERS  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  TO 
MISS  J.,  1834-1851.  Edited,  with  extracts  from  the 
diary  of  the  latter,  by  Christine  Terhune  Herrick. 
i2mo,  boards,  $1.75. 

WERNER  (E.). 

VINETA.     A  Novel.    From  the  German  of  E.  Werner. 

i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
AT  A  HIGH  PRICE.     A  Novel.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

WHAT  WE  BELIEVE. 

A  Catechism  in  the  Words  of  Scripture.     Paper,  3  cents. 

WHATELY  (MARY  L.). 

LETTERS  FROM  EGYPT.  i6mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 
75  cents. 

"  '  Letters  from  Egypt,'  by  Miss  Mary  L.  Whately,  of  Egypt,  comprises 
letters  written  from  Egypt  to  England,  and  afterward  printed  in  this  manner. 
The  book  conveys  more  interesting  information  concerning  the  people  of 
Egypt  and  their  habits  and  beliefs  than  can  be  found  in  any  other  book  of 
the  size.  Miss  Whately's  work  in  Egypt  has  been  of  great  value  to  that 
country,  and  she  still  continues  in  charge  of  her  school  in  Cairo." 

WHITELOCK  (WILLIAM). 

THE  LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  JOHN  JAY.  With 
portrait  after  the  painting  by  Gilbert  Stuart.  8vo, 
cloth,  $1.75. 

"  This  is  an  important  addition  to  American  bibliographical  and  histori 
cal  literature.  John  Jay  bore  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  making  of  our  nation 
and  left  a  strong  impress  upon  the  character  of  our  institutions.  In  private 
life  pure  and  honorable,  in  public  life  conscientious  and  capable,  he  every 
where  inspired  the  fullest  confidence  and  the  highest  regard.  Whitelock's 
'  Life  of  Jay,'  written  with  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  epoch  in  which 
Jay  bore  a  prominent  part,  will  form  a  welcome  addition  to  the  library  of 
any  student  of  American  history." — Christian  Union. 


CATALOGUE   OF  P  UBL1CA  TIONS.  6 1 

WILKINSON  (Sir  J.  GARDNER,  D.C.L.,  F.R.S., 
F.R.G.S.  etc.). 

THE  MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS  OF  THE  AN 
CIENT  EGYPTIANS.  A  new  edition,  revised  and 
corrected  by  Samuel  Birch,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.,  Keeper 
of  the  Egyptian  and  Oriental  Antiquities  in  the 
British  Museum ;  President  of  the  Society  of  Bibli 
cal  Archaeology,  etc.  With  several  hundred  illus 
trations,  many  of  them  full-page  plates  in  color. 
In  3  vols.,  8vo,  cloth,  $8.00. 

WILLIAMS  (MONIER),  Professor  of  Sanscrit  in 
the  East  India  College. 

SAKOONTALA  ;  OR,  THE  LOST  RING.  From  the 
Sanscrit  of  Kalidasa.  Limited  large-paper  edition  of 
100  copies  on  Japan  paper,  head-pieces  and  borders 
in  color,  $25.00.  Library  edition,  i2mo,  cloth,  $2.50. 

Several  editions  of  this  great  Indian  drama  have  appeared  abroad,  but 
this,  we  think,  is  the  first  attempt  to  bring  it  to  the  notice  of  American  read 
ers.  The  best  evidence  of  its  appreciation  by  scholars  is  perhaps  shown  in 
Goethe's  lines: 

"  Wouldst  thou  the  young  year's  blossoms  and  the  fruits  of  its  decline, 

And  all  by  which  the  soul  is  charmed,  enraptured,  feasted,  fed  ? 
Wouldst  thou  the  earth  and  heaven  itself  in  one  sole  name  combine  ? 
1  name  thee,  O  Sakoontala !  and  all  at  once  is  said." 

WOLTMAJST    (Prof.    ALFRED),    and    Dr.    KARL 
WOERMAN. 

HISTORY  OF  PAINTING.  Ancient,  Early  Christian, 
and  Mediaeval.  From  the  German  of  Prof.  Alfred 
Woltman  and  Dr.  Karl  Woerman.  Translated  and 
edited  by  Prof.  Sidney  Colvin,  of  Cambridge  Univer 
sity.  Large  8vo.  Numerous  illustrations.  Cloth, 
$7.50;  half  morocco,  $10.50;  half  levant,  $12.50. 


6--  DODD,  MEAD  &>  COMPANY'S 

WOLTMAN    (Prof.    ALFRED),    and    DR.   KARL 
WOERMAN.— CONTINUED. 

A  HISTORY  OF  MODERN  PAINTING,  by  the  same 
authors,  covering  the  period  of  the  Renaissance. 
8vo,  uniform  with  vol.  i.  Profusely  illustrated. 
Cloth,  $12.50  ;  half  morocco,  $15.50  ;  half  levant, 
$17.50- 

STUDENT'S   EDITION.     HISTORY  OF  PAINTING. 

Printed  from  the  plates  of  the  large  edition.     2  vols., 
half  roan  $7.50;  half  morocco,  $12.50. 

"  The  work  is  a  great  treatise,  broad  as  art  itself  in  scope,  scrupu 
lously  faithful  in  treatment,  and  founded  upon  scholarship  the  profoundest 
and  most  admirably  balanced." — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

The  amazing  industry  and  learning  of  Professor  Woltman  is  all  his  own  ; 
so  is  his  fidelity  to  history  as  well  as  his  painstaking  conscientiousness.  All 
this  combined  makes  Woltman's  work  the  best  manual  and  the  best  refer 
ence-book  on  the  history  of  Painting  to  be  found  in  the  English  language. 

WORBOISE  (MRS.  EMMA  J.). 

THE    LILLINGSTONES    OF    LILLINGSTONE      A 

new  edition     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  This  is  the  story  of  the  life  and  trials  of  an  English  family,  which,  los 
ing  its  head  and  its  heritage  for  a  time,  worked  its  way  back  to  Lillingstone. 
It  is  the  story  of  a  brave  struggle  and  a  final  victory.  The  characters  are 
well  sustained." — Indianapolis  News. 

YATES  (EDMUND). 

BROKEN    TO    HARNESS.      A    Novel.      iamo,   cloth, 

$1.00. 
RUNNING  THE  GAUNTLET.    A  Novel.    i2mo,  cloth, 

$1.00. 


CATALOGUE  OF  PUBLICATIONS.  63 

The  following  are  made  in  bindings  from  new  designs  : 

ROE'S  WORKS.  Half  calf,  $3.00  per  volume. 
CONSUELO.     4  vols.,  half  calf,  $12.00  ;  half  levant,  $14.00. 
LAUREL  SERIES  POETS. 

Keats.     2  vols.,  half  calf,  $6.00  ;  half  levant,  $7.00. 

Songs  of  Dramatists,     i  vol.,  half  calf,  $3.00  ;  half  levants 
$3-5°- 

Burns.     2  vols.,  half  calf,  $6.00  ;  half  levant,  $7.00. 

Scott.     3  vols.,  half  calf,  $9.00  ;  half  levant,  $10.50. 

Hood.     3  vols.,  half  calf,  $9.00  ;  half  levant,  $10.50. 

Shelley.     3  vols.,  half  calf,  $9.00  ;  half  levant,  $10.50. 

Aurora  Leigh,     i  vol.,  half  calf,  $3.00  ;  half  levant,  83.50. 

Gray,     i  vol.,  half  calf,  $3.00  ;  half  levant,  83.50. 
DOBSON.     2  vols.,  half  calf,  $8.00  ;  half  levant,  $9.00. 
MRS.  BROWNING.     5  vols.,    half   calf,   $12.50;   half  levant. 

$i5-oo. 

PEPYS'  DIARY.    10  vols.,  half  calf,  $30.00  ;  half  levant,  $3 7. 50. 
DON  QUIXOTE.    4  vols.,  half  calf,  $12.00  ;  half  levant,  $14.00. 
HENRY  III.]     3  vols.,  half  calf,  $15.00  ;  half  levant,  $18.00. 
LUBKE'S  ART.     2  vols.,  half  mor.,  $12.50. 
FERGUSSON,  ARCHITECTURE.    2  vols.,  hf.  mor.,  §12.50. 
HISTORY  OF  PAINTING.     2  vols.,  half  mor.,  $12.50. 
HISTORY  OF  SCULPTURE.     2  vols.,  half  mor.,  $12.50. 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


A     000  550  603     5 


